


Home

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Molly ships Johnlock, Multi, Mygolly, Polyamory, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt: Hospital</strong><br/>She was utterly through with holding back.<br/>In which things get slightly more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of a series! I have a timeline [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/142635) and everything is ordered chronologically, with the understanding that due to prompts and general merrymaking, there are a lot of shorts going on in the background of the chaptered stories.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> St. Bartholomew's had been the scene of many watershed moments of her adult life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in my mind, I still need a place to go  
> All my changes were there  
> "Helpless"- Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Where Mycroft concerned himself with the nation on the global stage and Greg's jurisdiction was limited to London, Molly's own focus had a narrower beam and was centred around her community and the hospital that served it. St. Bartholomew's had been the scene of many watershed moments of her adult life. On this ground, she had built a fine reputation and become respected in her field. These sturdy walls had seen her duped by a madman, and watched as she conducted his post-mortem the following year. Here, she had learned truths and told lies, found her mother and her courage. She had met the Holmes brothers and had offered solace to one, her heart to the other, and loyalty to both. Last Friday, this structure had hosted a wedding, a party, and a revelation that signalled the turning of a new corner in her life.

Molly blinked when she realised she’d been staring at the clock in the bottom corner of her computer screen, and she chided herself and got back to work on filling out forms. Seven more minutes _and then_ she would close the door on her office and go down to lunch. But not yet.

Four minutes. In two-hundred and forty seconds she would save her work, wash up, and head to the canteen at a sedate and respectable pace. She would meet Mycroft Holmes, and they would- for the first time- present themselves exactly as they were: two people in love and having lunch for all to see. No more pretending to meet by chance, to be mere acquaintances caught in the wild whizzing of his brother’s wide orbit. No more communicating in breathless whispered touches and coded notes in his tidy handwriting; leaves and stems and petals in the crease of the envelope, spelling out her path to him: _come home_. No more ducking into stairwells and supply cupboards to feel lips and hands and pulses too fast under skin.

Well, maybe sometimes. Within reason.

Warmth bloomed in her cheeks.

Three minutes. She quailed for a few seconds as shyness overcame her. There was every indication that people might stare. What Molly feared was that they would only see an unremarkable woman with a slightly unsettling profession making eyes at a refined older gent who may not even appear receptive, depending on his own comfort level. It was possible that the couple wouldn’t speak to one another beyond the initial greeting, and that was sure to set others talking. She wondered if her sweetheart had gone through similar worries in the months before he made their relationship common knowledge, and she steadied herself when she understood that he had. He was probably nervous still. If Greg hadn’t suggested that they try to meet up for breaks and enjoy the new lack of subterfuge, it was unlikely that Mycroft would have considered setting this date up, and Molly would have been stuck for ideas about the best way to draw him out.

 _Almost_. She finished the form and gave up all pretense of starting the next in favour of willing the time to tick over. She decided to ignore the attention of her coworkers and think instead of the fluttering excitement just behind her sternum. She and her men knew what they all had in each other, and it was plenty. That Mycroft was finally secure enough to break the cover of secrecy was supposed to be a relief, and she ought not waste time fretting. Molly wiggled her toes resolutely.

 _Now!_ She was up from her desk so quickly that she banged her knee, but she didn’t let that slow her down. She was utterly through with holding back.

 

 


	2. Let Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had learned better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now there's a hole in the ceiling down through which I fell  
> There is a girl in a basement coming out of her shell  
> And there are people who will say they knew me so well  
> I may not go to heaven, I hope you go to hell  
> "St. Robinson and His Cadillac Dream"-Counting Crows

He wasn't there. It took Molly only a matter of seconds to fail to find him; the very air was somehow affected by his presence in any space, and this room- large though it was- felt the same as it ever did. Her mouth drew tight in disappointment and her prior anticipation became a stone in her churning stomach and lead in her feet. She didn’t need to make a circuit past the food to confirm that there was nothing she was willing to put on her tray at this point, but she trudged through the line nonetheless. When she arrived at the cashier, she grabbed an apple from the basket beside the register to give him something to ring up.

She took her fruit, her pride, and her knee- all slightly bruised- and sat down at a small table to wait. Maybe he would turn up. She watched the minutes tick by with an altogether different feeling than before, and after passing twelve of them in dread and swelling frustration with no sign of him, she tapped the call button.

It went directly to voicemail. _Ah_. Following a hunch, she tried Anthea, too. When this yielded the same result, she took her mobile back to her office and rang Greg. They didn't actually solve anything with their assessment, but she felt a little better knowing that their other lover was aware of the communication breakdown and would be listening for the phone on his end, too. "I'm sure he's fine. If Anthea is unreachable, then she’s with him.” Molly was still harboring some doubts and she suspected that Gregory Lestrade wasn’t as calm as he seemed, but the undercurrent of fear was better left unacknowledged in the circumstances. It wasn’t as though there was anything more to be done but to console one another until they heard something.

She felt vaguely silly. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with it,” she said, and Greg assured her that she hadn’t worried him unduly. He called her a chocolate mouse to make her laugh, and she told him she loved him and rang off. It hadn’t been how she’d planned to spend her lunch break, but it wasn’t so awful in the end.

Of course, without Greg's confident voice in her ears, she fell prey to fretting again. She put her music on shuffle and threw herself into her work, hurrying to outrun the howling of her own nerves. Luckily, fate handed her an outlet.

Brian Perkins oozed into her bay while she was putting her latest patient to bed. There were a number of things about the current scenario that she had cause to dislike. First, as a junior lab tech, he had no proper reason to be here. Second, she had overheard him making unprofessional and frankly disrespectful comments about the necessarily nude bodies of the dead on two separate occasions, and Molly- for all that she kept a easy fellowship with those who populated cold storage- felt protective of them and wouldn’t tolerate rudeness. Third, she had been singing along to a Culture Club tune, and shyness abounded. On top of all that, she didn't much care for the way she felt around him: unsteady legs and clammy skin. It reminded her of other times and places and people that had invoked those reactions, and of what had been revealed when she hadn’t listened because she had thought all the churning in her gut was butterflies. She had learned better.

Then he leered at her and made a lewd suggestion about her and him and one or two of his mates, "Since, you know, you’re into that," and she thought of missteps and joyful explorations and stockings lost under strange beds. What she lacked in anger she shored up with offended disgust, and when he made to move closer, she let it out.

"Polyfidelity: look it up after you _get out of my morgue_." She glared at him hotly, and he took a step back, then another. He was gone in a puff of indignation.

In ten minutes, while she loaded her tools into the steriliser, she would think that drawing the comparison between Perkins and an unlined cardboard box of soggy cirrhotic livers would have served as an apt insult and snort at her wasted opportunity. Five minutes after that, it would come to her that she should have spelled out for him in plain English that simply because her heart had selected two people as occupants, didn't mean he was an option. On the tube ride home, she would vacillate between wondering if her handling had been excessively harsh or too lenient. While she waited for her vindaloo curry in her bedaisied pyjamas, she would mention it to Gregory via text message, and he would immediately ring her up in a minor rage on her behalf and vow to pluck the man’s nose-hairs out one by one.

But just now, what she had was relief at the sight of the back of Brian Perkins, and Mike coming through the side door with raised brows. "All right, Molly?" Steady, dependable Mike Stamford reminded her of who John Watson might have been if he hadn’t grown up in a foxhole and so felt compelled to seek out new reasons to dig trenches. How fortunate they all were that John had fallen into step with Sherlock, whose preferred form of entertainment and income was lobbing grenades across no-man's-land.

"Sure, I think it went fairly well!" she said with forced cheer, and he glanced the way the young man had left and shook his head.

"He's one of mine. If you don’t want to report him, I will."

She felt a chill and wrinkled her nose at the thought of the awkward interview that would follow such an endeavour. "Did you actually witness any of that?"

"Just the tail end, but I can guess enough to make it a good story," he offered. “Either way. Oh, I, um... won’t be in next Monday. Long weekend planned, you know.” His dimples gave him away.

Molly grinned and asked after Janine, “She was gorgeous at the wedding,” she observed, and Mike suddenly found interesting things to look on the other side of the room while he mumbled his agreement. She confided that Sherlock had spent a month before his engagement party conspiring to introduce the pair.

“Is that so?” Mike asked, bewildered. “I should do something really nice for him, then.”

“In his estimation, you already did.”

He huffed, “Well, it took them long enough!”

Late that night, she woke to warm fingers sliding her hair back from her face. She reached up and captured the welcome invader’s hand in both of her own, and tugged Mycroft down onto her bed. She kissed him with the lingering taste of toothpaste and fiery spices on her tongue, and he went willingly to chase her flavours until they broke apart, smiling and half-breathless in the wavery dim glow of the small aquarium in her room.

He explained what she and Greg had guessed at: locked-room meeting, scrambled mobile signals. “We were released scarcely an hour ago, and when I called Gregory, he said you were concerned. I am sorry I had to miss our date.” Molly admitted that she was enjoying this meeting as an alternative, and he chuckled, “You ought to latch that window.”

“I could leave the door standing open and you’d still climb in through the fire escape. I don’t know if you like the risk or the romance of it more.”

“They are,” he whispered, words catching in her eyelashes, “the very same thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly was singing "Karma Chameleon" ;)


	3. Adrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes wanting was even more exquisite than having.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strung out on the wings of the dawn  
> Hole in the back, soul in the storm  
> Torn down through the cracks in the dark  
> We're miles adrift and inches apart  
> "Broken"-Unkle

Mycroft held her until her words ran to mumbles and her eyes closed, then he waited another hour to watch her anchored and drifting soundly before he gingerly inched back across her duvet and stood to smooth the creases in his rumpled suit. He left a kiss on Molly’s shoulder through the covers and a note on her bedside table. They hadn’t made love in the conventional sense tonight, affirming their connection with short phrases and lingering caresses, fingers twisted together instead of limbs. Sometimes wanting was even more exquisite than having.

When the car came back, he left by way of the door after securing his previous entry point. He indulged in a longing glance up at her flat as he climbed into the backseat and sped away home. Once he was in his pyjamas, he stood for a minute in his bedroom, staring daunted at the empty space. Then he sighed internally. He retrieved the blanket from the chest built into the footboard and went to kip on the sofa. It was getting more difficult to lay in his bed alone. He had been afraid of this.

His house had been haunted by their shades for years, but it had been (more or less) contained and manageable. Which was to say, the images were faint and glimpses blessedly brief. That was no longer the case. In the past year, they had been all through his home until the very foundation was soaked with their presence and if he listened in the silence he could hear them: bare footsteps on the floorboards, Molly singing over the rattling of dishes in the kitchen, Gregory calling down the stairs. As was his habit in most things, he deftly turned his problem into its own solution.

As Tuesday ticked over into Wednesday, he lay on his side and tried to imagine that the back of the couch was a warm body behind him. He closed his eyes and conjured up the phantom feeling of Greg’s arm around his waist and Molly’s breath against his chest. Already curled betwixt two dreams, he slept.

*          *          *

"Is that everything?" John asked, coming back down from the nursery, then reeled at the sight of what Sherlock considered necessary. Four scuffed duffle bags in different sizes and colours were tossed artlessly on the floor around two large hardsided suitcases and a trio of wheeled bags, one of which was covered in white butterflies that Sherlock insisted were lunar moths. John adjusted his grip on the strap of the nappy bag on his good shoulder and tried to keep both his spine and his face straight. _Of course_. "We're only going to be gone for a week, you nutter. We don’t need to bring our entire wardrobes."

After further consideration, John thought Elanor probably would require all of her little outfits for her stay with the Holmes parents. She had been down to only one or two costume changes during the course of a normal day, until this past month she’d begun refusing food that she didn’t personally feed herself. The result was laundry that always needed doing. Sherlock had been the first to voice the question that had baffled both of them: “What is the actual purpose of a bib?” He’d gone on, “So she has one clean patch under her chin, she needs a bath anywa- John! She’s got banana mush on her sock _already_. I wonder if I could map the progression of mess if I used a time lapse video?” He had sounded impressed by the end. When their eyes had met, the whole frustrating episode was leavened by the howling laughter that had followed, grabbing furniture for support as knees buckled under the weight of helpless joy.

Still, all the baby’s clothes ought to fit in the carry-on, which left eight pieces of luggage devoted to... what? He glanced around the main room, half expecting to see lamps missing from tables and bare spaces on bookshelves.

"I may have got carried away. A bit." Sherlock studied the pile of assorted bags as if just noticing them. "Thought we should keep our options open." The couple was embarking on a quick tour of the continent that Sherlock had plotted out between cases and wedding planning. Admittedly, they were off to a later start than was traditional, but there had been a lot of things to get sorted following the wedding, and they had left a few days leeway in their departure plans. "We don’t have to do this. It seems," Sherlock said with a shrug in the direction of the door, "mildly superfluous to go on a honeymoon when we've been together for so long-"

"We haven't, though," John broke in. "We've not even been an item for a whole year yet. We just passed the sixth anniversary of meeting, and you were dead for two of those years, if you'll recall."

"You were with me," Sherlock said quietly, "always. I want to show you all the places that I carried you while I was gone. This trip is just the start. And Elanor should see the world, too, when she’s older." He looked over to where the blonde baby was asleep in her carrier, waiting for her grandparents to pick her up on their way back home. From the pinched face he was pulling, John knew he was still anxious, though he couldn’t tell if the detective was more bothered about the separation or Elanor’s own adventure. They’d had a hushed discussion the previous night that had featured Sherlock muttering about the elder Holmes’ parenting skills and worrying until John had sweetly offered to smother him and chuck his corpse out of the window to put him beyond his misery.

John smiled. "Right, okay, hopefully by then you’ll know how to travel light."

Sherlock immediately indicated the two large cases, then he put Elanor’s bag and one satchel by the door for his folks. They were later revealed- when they took a phone call from the confused grandmother ten minutes after they landed in Vienna- to be mostly full of toys and soft blankets for their girl. It was nice to know his new husband had his priorities in order.

*          *          *

Around noon on Thursday, Greg Lestrade was wrapping an investigation- just checking that all the statements were in order and everything was set- when he noticed that things had suddenly gone quiet. His brow barely had a chance to furrow before Donovan stuck her head in his door and sang out, "Your _boyfriend's_ here, boss!" Her announcement was followed up by whistles and whoops from the rest, and Greg was caught between never leaving his office again and rushing out to save Mycroft. He did the honourable thing, and spotted the younger man at the far end of the hallway.

He held up a hand to settle the noise, "You’re going to spook my quarry." This was met with laughter.

"I'm not spooked. I am unspookable," Mycroft stated flatly. Greg felt his mouth turn up into a smirk as he headed over. He wondered who his lover thought he was fooling, as he appeared massively embarrassed and was turning a rather fetching shade of pink.

They agreed to take a walk to St. James’ Park for lunch. While they nibbled their sandwiches, Mycroft returned to his proper colour and Greg reiterated his regrets about the upcoming week. Anna would be gone to San Diego to take care of her sister while she recuperated from knee replacement surgery, so he would have Ward all to himself until the Sunday after next. “You’ll have Molly to keep you company, though,” Greg pointed out cheerfully, until Mycroft’s sad expression reminded him that their lady was spending Saturday with her recently discovered sister. “Ah. Well, I’ll miss you.”

“Will you?” Mycroft queried softly, and he sounded so lonely that Greg gave him a kiss to match his heartfelt assurance.


	4. Yearning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What mattered was the kinship of mutual weirdnesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So stay there  
> 'Cause I'll be coming over  
> While our blood's still young  
> It's so young, it runs  
> Won't stop 'til it's over  
> Won't stop to surrender  
> "Sweet Disposition"-The Temper Trap

Molly had spent years silently supplementing her lack of siblings by adopting a handful of close friends, so she felt mostly prepared for the genuine article. She knew that she’d never really have the same experience as people who grew up fighting over a shared sink in the morning or negotiating telly programmes before bed, but she was certain that she had the familial affection down pat. Actually, it seemed to be a tap she couldn’t quite turn off.

As she made her way to meet Prudelia for breakfast, she remembered that she’d met Cassie at the same age: that bittersweet breath between childhood and maturity when all you have is ideas and you can’t find a pen to scribble them down with.

Cassie had recently been granted the assistant manager position at the little secondhand bookshop, an afterthought promotion where her title and pay finally matched her workload. She’d been made a keyholder at nineteen; she had worked on and off the books for some time as she struggled to keep herself afloat, and also help out at the shelter that had given her aid when Molly was unreachable. Pru had said that Cassie was a great boss, besides being a little _bossy_. It made her smile to think that her surrogate sister had struck up a sort of friendship with her partially biological one.

Until it occurred to her what that might mean. Of course, that thought didn’t find its target until she was slowing to a stop outside the flat Prudelia shared with her father, when he was home. Danny Maddox worked in transit, so his schedule was regular but taxing. Pru had grown up riding trains and Tube lines around London, and it had given her an uncanny sense of space. At seventeen, she knew their city better than Molly could claim. She had also managed to perfect a traveler’s numbly impersonal and bored stare that seemed to see nothing, and it suited her and balanced out her toothy enthusiasm for life. This morning, though, she looked a bit guarded.

Before Molly could so much as wave in greeting, her younger half-sister was pulling the door shut behind her and leading the way down the lane. “My dad’s home, let’s go out!” the teen said, less a suggestion than an explanation as she pointed out their heading. Molly caught up to the long-legged stride, wondering if Danny was asleep or if Prudelia just wanted privacy for the conversation she could see coming towards her with no escape.

She kept being caught flat-footed by the quirks they shared: an inexplicable but fervent hatred of Twinnings English Breakfast, an almost fanatic appreciation for music, and a strong preference for stone fruits forsaking all else. She tried to remember the handful of moments she'd spent with her mother to see if their common parent had been the root of the way they both ate plums by nibbling the meat off in clockwise spirals. Where was the line between predisposition and learned behavior, and how much was simply coincidence? When they ordered and her sister requested a straw for her juice, her water, _and_ her coffee, Molly couldn’t hide her grin as she indicated the same. In the sum of things, the reason wasn’t so important. What mattered was the kinship of mutual weirdnesses.

“So I heard a thing,” Prudelia ventured, trying to maintain an air of chilly detatchment but obviously vibrating with curiosity.

Molly was not going to pass up the chance to drag this out. “Oh?” she hummed politely. She thought the girl was going to launch out of the chair in frustration.

“Cassie mentioned that you danced with two blokes at Sherlock’s wedding.”

“I danced with a lot of men,” Molly agreed, “and some ladies, too.”

Pru fixed her with a stony glare, which quickly crumbled to giggles on both sides. “You know what I mean,” she sputtered out, and Molly nodded. Prudelia recovered and added, “She seemed to think this was a regular situation, and that I would know already.” She was a little reproachful at the backside of that comment, and Molly offered her an apologetic shrug.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said, and went on to explain that Mycroft’s job was complicated.

Her sibling tilted her head for a second. “These are the same guys I met at Mum's wake? So- what- they know each other?”

“They do. Very well,” Molly confirmed. She was trying to be oblique without being dishonest, and she was fairly sure she'd hit her mark if the wide-eyed blinking was any indication. She didn't catch what Prudelia said next, because it was muffled behind both hands and too high-pitched to be intelligible anyway.

Once she had calmed down enough to be understood, she proclaimed that was, “Cute as buttons.”

Prudelia Maddox was quite possibly the coolest little sister anyone had ever had.

*          *          *

Mycroft was idly making acrostic puzzles out of their names, and words like _yearning_ kept pouring out of his pen, unbidden. He’d had a scant few hours with Molly on Sunday before he had been called away unexpectedly, and she had insisted before he went that he take an extra kiss to pass along to Gregory the next time they met. At least the business of the last few days had sufficiently occupied his mind, but now that this crisis was concluded, he was in a bad way again. He’d even be happy for a distraction in the form of Sherlock causing trouble, but the newlyweds had only just returned home.

When his mobile rang, he did not answer Gregory with _oh thank god_ or _I'm dying (without you) here_ , but he nonetheless suspected that the older man took his full meaning. “Yes.”

“Ward’s in school until four today, and I have the rest of the afternoon off...”

Mycroft could hardly believe his luck. “Where are you?” he inquired, aiming for mild interest and landing with both feet solidly in breathless anticipation.

He could hear the suggestive grin in Greg’s response, “Where would you like me to be?”

“Atop my desk would be a fine start."

There was a pause and a quiet groan. “Really? Yeah?”

He said with the lightest touch of pride, “I averted an international crisis this morning. I can afford to take a long lunch.” (It warranted some bragging, actually. It had been a near thing, and he’d managed it on little sleep and no breakfast.)

Greg’s voice had sunk an entire octave. “What are you having?”

“That will depend entirely upon how soon you can negotiate your route.”

He could hear murmuring and footfalls and knew that the inspector had left his office. “Fifteen minutes, sweet potato.”

Too, too long. “Ten?”

“I'll have to run.”

“Do." His heart was certainly picking up speed to match.

Greg warned that his projected condition might have him arriving rather disheveled. “I might be all sweaty, then, too.”

Mycroft countered, “Oh, because that's a state I've never witnessed.” He cleared his schedule and his workspace. He gulped down the last mouthful of his cold tea and smiled into the cup, imagining his darling tripping over his own shadow to reach him.


	5. Playdates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of shared cigarettes hadn’t been the only thing that had pointed to private meetings between his older brother and the inspector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to know  
> All that is gold is rusting  
> "Soldier On"-The Temper Trap

He was making do rather brilliantly, though that fact shouldn't surprise anyone. He was Sherlock Holmes. He did everything well. Mostly.

Sherlock was mentally reviewing evidence, texting John, and balancing a chatty thirteen-month-old against one shoulder all from the hallway leading to the dangerously overstuffed office of ~~Greebo~~ Greg Lestrade.

The newlyweds had agreed upon a full day of buffer time between their ~~sex holiday~~ honeymoon and any attempt at jumping back into work, and the latest crime had been perpetrated after what Mrs. Hudson would deem a worthy hour. With the confusion of locating everything the doctor needed for his first shift back at the clinic this morning, it was past lunch before Sherlock found the message about the stolen doors. By the time he got Elanor down to Scotland Yard to see what they couldn't, it was creeping up on evening and the detective inspector was hosting a small interloper of his own. Sherlock knew that this must be his friend’s young son. If the situation hadn't tipped him off, the similarity to doodles he'd spotted when rifling through the other man's papers on previous occasions would have done. Sherlock wondered if ~~Gabriel~~ Greg was aware of how much he gave away to anyone brave enough to approach his blotter. The smell of shared cigarettes hadn’t been the only thing that had pointed to private meetings between his older brother and the inspector.

He was pulled up to the far side of the desk, tucked against the wall in a chair of grey upholstery and chrome that looked old enough to be nostalgic for the seventies. Seated in profile, the boy had a naturally rumpled look about him, despite having enviably straight black hair and no wrinkles in his school uniform other than the ones that came from sitting slumped and bored. His unkempt appearance was, Sherlock decided, something about his face. His reading glasses were steadily sliding down his nose because he kept twitching it as his expressions gave away that his attention was clearly focused on adventures that had little to do with the multiplication figures in front of him and more to do with whatever the boy was scanning in his lap. His head made an abortive attempt to see who it was coming in, but apparently was dissuaded by the lines on the page. He didn't look up until they were introduced, and his eyes had a faintly angular cast to them until they widened to take Sherlock in. “I love your stories!” Ward blurted out.

“They're John's, really.”

“They're _about_ you though. Makes them yours, too. Anyway, they're great.” The child looked at him expectantly, like he was waiting for spontaneous thrilling escapades to break out. Then he noticed the smallest member of their party and one side of his face drew up in uncertainty over how happy he should be to make her acquaintance. “Is that Elanor?”

They had made the attempt to keep their daughter out of ~~firing range~~ view, but- as it happened- babies were _interesting_ and slyly inserted themselves into conversations in blog comment threads before creeping into entries and finally being given their own short update paragraphs. Mycroft had flailed over the total lack of informational secrecy, but in the end had given his stalwart assurance that if her name appeared anywhere else, it would be swiftly deleted and dealt with. On the topic of the elder Holmes…

“Hold up,” Ward said, and he peered up at Sherlock through the gap between his fringe and his wire frames. “You have a brother called Mycroft?”

“Yes, so.. _ohhh_. Oh.” That name was sprinkled sparingly through the blog, but it would stand out. His estimation of Ward’s reading comprehension skills rose, and he was vaguely concerned that there might be unsuitable material in those entries. He glanced over, but Lestrade was staring at Ward with precisely the same expression of dubious trepidation that his son had earlier used when confronted with the presence of Elanor. “Oh,” he said again, for good measure.

Ward nodded slowly, “Huh.” He blinked, unsure what to do with this new information. Then he appraised Sherlock more closely for a minute before he judged, “You don’t look much alike.”

“We have the same hair.” He wondered why he felt so defensive over the observations of a kid when Ward cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well, he sort of threatens his into laying flat.”

With that, his little girl entered the conversation. She patted his curls and burbled, “Fwuffy,” and giggled.

She wasn’t alone in her mirth, and he spun to see Sally Donovan smirking at them, not bothering to hold in her chuckles. “I think I’ve got him beat there,” she muttered to Elanor as she slipped past with a witness statement and nibbles for the Lestrade men: beef and broccoli and tea. She stopped to let the Elanor test the texture of her hair, gave Sherlock a tight smile, and was gone again.

“What about the witness?” Sherock asked as the report was opened.

“Witless?” Elanor inadvertently suggested, trying out the word.

“Frequently, but remember: one can’t hold that against them.” _There_ , he thought, _that’s good parenting, isn’t it?_ Well, John would have laughed. ~~Gershwin~~ Greg did, but still managed to look disapproving. He had talent. Ward was already trying to divide his focus between the book on his tablet and filling his stomach. “What are you reading?” Sherlock inquired.

Ward gave a quick head shake to indicate that his activity was meant to be secret, but stopped when he saw his dad watching, amused. Lestrade made a grabbing gesture across the desk and Ward passed the tablet over with sulky shoulders. “ _A Hatful of Sky_ , or I _was_.” He glared guiltily. It was really difficult not to smile at him. Belatedly, he protested the confiscation by claiming, “Reading is part of my homework.”

The copper was having none of it. “What chapter were you supposed to read tonight?”

“Four,” was the answer.

“And what chapter’re you on?”

This time the response was markedly delayed and delivered in a mumble, “...Seven.”

"Finish your sums first, mite.”

“Dad, this is _multiplication_! _Sums_ are for babies!”

Elanor let out an indignant squawk, and if Sherlock had chosen to discern sense from the noise, he would have cause to report to John that his colourful use of language was also being noted by delicate ears. At any rate, the boy hurried to apologise to his younger compatriot, who accepted it with grace and understanding ~~after sticking her tongue out~~. All umbrage was forgotten when he offered to read aloud once his maths problems were solved.

*          *          *

“Anyway,” Greg continued, pink-cheeked from laughing, “It kept them busy while we worked. She’s a little cracker, that one. By the time John showed up, she was trying to repeat everything Ward said and he was pulling up pictures of sheep and different kinds of cheese to illustrate the story for her. Everyone kept finding excuses to drop into my office. It’s a wonder we got anything done.”

Mycroft suppressed a grin, then thought better of it and unleashed what he hoped were very respectable giggles. Molly was shaking too hard to sit up straight anymore, her laughter gone soundless while Gregory recounted Sherlock’s explanation of Mycroft’s better-behaved hair. Greg’s facility with other people’s facial expressions lent an extra credence to the tale.

They hadn't had much opportunity to do this lately. Each of them had separate obligations and their visits had been parsed out in minutes and hours instead of days. They had met in pairs (so briefly and closely timed that goodbyes were looming oppressions, the clock an ill-mannered and uninvited guest), but he knew he wasn’t the only one who liked it best when they were all together. Last weekend, Valentine's Day had involved a flurry of phone calls and tentative plans canceled. His dears were both called in for work due to a drunk driver causing a pileup on the A201, and he'd managed to comfort himself with duties of his own until there was nothing left to do but think in circles. At last, he had pulled up video feed of each of them striving and watched until he fell asleep with his head pillowed on his folded arms. That had been a bad night for all of them. When he’d woken, it had been to a glimpse of Molly climbing down from an autopsy table, after having taken a page from Sherlock’s book. He'd found Gregory still curled on his battered sofa across town, having been evidently unable to make it all the way to his bed.

As it was, they were only able to wrest a rest of thirty-four hours from the world; he had a flight out on Sunday morning. Next weekend, Molly’s birthday fell on the last Saturday of the month, so he would be obliged to spend a few hours of it at the office for the regular meeting. It was possible that they wouldn’t be able to meet as a trio for a while again after this. Another month of gnawing absence waved thick and matte grey before him. The thought was sobering enough that he spoke aloud the notion he’d been harbouring for some time now.

“You should both live in my house.”

He wanted to call the words back as soon as he let them out, wished he could sop them up with the bread, slurp them in with the pasta, and wash them down with the wine.

Neither of his lovers were smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know the odds of an accident on the A201, and I in no way mean to disparage this innocent thoroughfare.


	6. Sheets and Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wondered when the feel of a sheet of paper between their hands had become as sensual as the ones they lay on together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just give me time  
> You know your desires and mine  
> So wrap my flesh in ivy and in twine  
> For I must be well  
> "Below My Feet"-Mumford & Sons

“And what brought this on?” Greg asked, floundering in his effort to catch up with the sudden hairpin turn the conversation had taken.

“It would be more efficient.”

“E _ffic_ -”

Molly dropped her silverware with a clang- winced, fumbled- and then insisted while staring at her plate that it would be better if Mycroft stopped talking and that Greg should really quit listening, because, “That wasn’t what he wanted to say, anyway. You know that.” She pinned him with a hard look. It was as near to an angry glare as he'd ever got from her, and it simply said _fix this_.

Greg gave her a surprised nod. He brought to the forefront of his thoughts that this was a green and tender bud for Mycroft, who was so much a creature of private concerns and small habits that he was rarely caught out. It seemed unlike him to offer a change without weighing all the outcomes, and that more than anything reminded Greg that the younger man might have no experience with what cohabitation would actually entail. He retrieved his garlic roll from where he had tossed it onto his plate in frustration and picked at it while he tried again, softer, “It's not as easy as that.”

“I see.” Mycroft was stiff and closed off, and something twisted in Greg’s gut to know that he had put the mistrustful distance in that shuttered gaze.

“Myc, love-”

There was shattered glass in his smile, “It's fine.”

Greg sighed. “No, don't... will you just listen? Please, _liebling_ ,” he appealed, and bought himself the briefest flicker of acceptance.

Sensing an end to the discontent, Molly slipped a word to their third. “You did begin it in the middle. Give us a second to get collected, okay?” and Mycroft’s mouth twisted sideways as he agreed. He surely wouldn't think it in his best interests to allow them a chance to gather ammunition for the battle.

Across from him and around the other corner from Myc, Molly was bravely giving the appearance of having returned to her meal while she strained to monitor the discussion. She swirled spaghetti noodles around her fork, found the bite comically large and wiggled it off to try again. Greg could relate. “Let me start by apologising, because my reaction was,” he licked his lips, “um, less than helpful.” He shook his head and said what he really wanted to say, “Pretty shitty, actually. So, I’m sorry. It caught me off guard, and it shouldn’t have, because it’s a good idea. I realise,” Gregory spoke carefully, “that this isn’t something that you're suggesting lightly; and that from your perspective, inviting us to live with you is- well- something of a sacrifice of your space.” He looked to Molly, and she nodded helpfully even while Mycroft’s grimace and half-shrug seemed to disagree.

“He doesn't mind that, though,” she supplied, making a close study of the man in question. “Oh, Greg. He's lonely for us. Yeah?” she confirmed when the other man’s attention snapped to her.

He visibly relaxed. “That's it precisely, Miss Hooper,” he replied. “It wouldn’t be any trouble to affix you both as permanent residents. I feel,” he coughed and nervously ran his hand down the weft of his waistcoat, “that you belong wherever I am.”

“But,” Greg pointed out, “it's not just us. I have a son-”

“Who is welcome _in perpetua_ , of course-”

He could tell that the thought had already occurred, and that made him feel quite a lot more at ease with the whole thing, but he doubted that Mycroft had any clue as to the scope of what this change would mean. He reached around the corner of the table and put a hand on Myc's arm to soothe them both. “And I'm sure you and he will get on fine when you've had time to get to know one another, love, but that's some of the point: you haven't. Anna will need to meet you both, too. My life isn't something we can pack up in boxes and bring over tomorrow afternoon.”

Mycroft blinked broadly and looked over at their lady, who held up a hand before he could speak. “If you ask me properly, I will say yes. So please, please don’t. Not yet.”

A pause, then, “That answer indicates an eventual capitulation.”

“Well yes, you daft man, but there are things to consider that may have escaped your notice in your haste.” Molly gently reminded Myc that she was sometimes called on for emergency medical services by the homeless network. “I'll need to provide them with a forwarding address,” she remarked wryly, and then appeared surprised that he made no protest to the idea of unexpected visitors turning up. “Aside from that, where am I going to put all of my things? I have furniture that really isn't much in keeping with your style, and the books and records... Mycroft, your library shelves may buckle under the weight of me.” She bit her lip, “ _You_ might. I love you, and I appreciate the offer, I do- but wait a little. Just a bit. And think. Not _no_ \- but not yet, see?”

*          *          *

Molly sank gratefully into the sofa, imagined she was melting into it and that tension could drip like smoke from her fingers if she only knew the right tune to hum. She had a few minutes to contemplate how leather always felt cool to the touch before Mycroft lowered next to her and dropped his head to nuzzle his nose into the flyaway hairs behind her ear. He pressed a note into her palm and a laugh onto her neck as he begged that she wait to read it until he was elsewhere. She wondered when the feel of a sheet of paper between their hands had become as sensual as the ones they lay on together. He pulled back to blink at himself. “I'm trying to say 'thank you.'”

“I gathered. What for?”

“That," he pointed a long finger at her, and then used it to nudge her chin higher, “For gathering me up. And better: for translating." He couldn't recall how he managed before this. Gregory knew what he needed, and Molly understood what he meant, even when he didn't.

“It can be hard to speak around the heart in your throat and the foot in your mouth, and those so often go hand in hand, and I'm using too many metaphors.” She silenced herself by kissing the edge of his ulna at the wrist and worrying the thin skin there against the flat of her teeth, then lightly between them so that he shuddered and had to work in order to reply.

“You're keeping to a general theme, at least. You're not usually this rambly.”

“Ha! Not with you, no.” She played with the hem of his cuff for a moment before she said, thoughtfully, “I don’t have to fill any of our silences, because they aren't empty.”

They let that spiral down into quiet. After a few minutes, he dropped his voice into a serious octave and asked if she truly would move in straight away if he posed it as a question instead of a hypothesis.

She turned her head to face him properly. “Yes, I'm afraid I would. When have I ever denied you anything?” she said, holding her breath and shutting her eyes. _Mercy_ , she silently pleaded, and got it when he trailed his lips across her cheek and spoke not one word more on the matter. She caught his face between her hands and kissed each freckle from memory. He pulled her to him for a hug.

She felt Greg flop down on the other end with a small bounce that signaled a grin. He announced that the leftovers were stowed, the dishes were drying and, “Mollywog, won't you help us get going on the laundry?”

She furrowed her brow- eyelids still closed- and protested, “The hamper's empty.”

“We could wash _these_ clothes,” Mycroft suggested, and she knew before she looked that he was feigning innocence. Sure enough.

Greg stopped mid-chuckle when he noticed the spare blanket from upstairs was folded over the arm of the couch and just beyond it, on the end table, there was a little alarm clock of the sort for sale in a luggage shop. Molly chewed on the corner of her worried frown while she waited for him on this side of the simple deduction. He met her gaze and rested his fingers on Mycroft’s thigh, gave a firm squeeze. “I'll call Anna, set up a meeting. Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Liebling" is German and means "darling," though not quite directly.


	7. Warmth and Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expecting him to form words just now was inexcusably cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Actual sex in this chapter, so be wary.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Peace in the struggle  
> To find peace  
> Comfort on the way  
> To comfort  
> "Fumbling Towards Ecstasy"-Sarah McLachlan

They took him to bed.

It was the first time he’d been in it in days, and a week or more since he’d managed to get any rest there; he had washed the linens and everything smelled unbearably bland and empty, the sight of pillows that no longer held the impression of their heads was a view to a foreign landscape in an unfriendly territory.

His Gregory never could spare much patience for the many layers of clothes, tugging and loosening, sliding his questing fingers under collars and up trouser legs when skin wasn’t revealed fast enough to keep up with his desires. Passion made him fumbly and hurried (though never exactly rushed, somehow). Molly operated on the other end of the speed dial, she could spend a quarter of an hour on two square centimetres, languidly mapping his body with her own until it was halfway through to morning and they were both panting and sweetly achy and still mostly dressed. Mycroft was never one to argue with either approach, but together- together was his favourite. Together meant a steady and inexorable pace with a known destination and a winding path to get there.

Tonight was no different. Following the disaster at dinner and the conversation on the couch, Greg leaned over and kissed him, firm and careful: an assurance. It didn’t stay that way, not for long. The second kiss upped the ante on pressure just the tiniest measure, and Mycroft felt the tip of Gregory’s tongue demanding entrance, a light nip to his lower lip when it wasn’t immediately granted. They broke apart at the sound of the hitch in Molly’s breath, and Mycroft gave her shoulders a squeeze with the arm still around her. _Upstairs_ they agreed without speaking.

In his bedroom, there was a dressing gown hung on the hook behind the door. Greg pressed him into it for a moment while he reaffirmed his dominion, laying hot kisses across Mycroft’s jaw and down. He struggled with his belt, going directly to his prize as was his right. Molly had already made quick work of their shirt buttons, her small, sure hands between them, and she batted at Greg until he let her help with their trousers as well. He turned his attention to her for an age, then. Mycroft watched Gregory pull Molly’s jumper over her head. She grumbled over the distraction and the speed; "Honestly, Greg, what's the big hurry?" she drawled before dropping to her knees. He let out a frustrated noise when he realised that she was wearing a blouse and he still had a ways to go, especially as Molly was being so delightfully slow about unclipping Mycroft’s braces and Mycroft was making a teasing production of folding every discarded item from each of them before it could hit the floor. Molly smirked up at him as she lazily drew his belt through each loop and he hid a grin. Winding Gregory up was their favourite pastime. The results were reliably spectacular.

Greg gave in and fell in behind their woman, stilling his frantic fingers with a conscious effort long enough to slip his way into her shirt and undo the catch on her bra, making her gasp before peeling her out of her clothes. Once he had her naked to the waist, he took down her hair and finger-combed through it while she opened Mycroft’s flies and gently claimed him with her mouth, and he focused on keeping his legs under himself while his hands linked with Greg’s in her soft brown waves.

She was all steady eagerness and delight, fluttering tongue and cautious teeth, holding herself back to savour him not-too-quickly. He knew from past experience that her ability to drag everything out (maddeningly) extended to this act as well. Gregory rocked back from rubbing his nose against her exposed nape and asked him, airless and gravelly, “Myc, what do you want, darling?”

“Mmm- hmm?” he replied intelligently. Expecting him to form words just now was inexcusably cruel. Molly flicked her gaze up to his and then whimpered around him when he answered, “Fill me up? Please.” Greg smothered a desperate groan on Molly’s shoulder and ground hard into her back.

There were things they did with all the lights on, activities best monitored and observed closely, games that could leave a lasting impression on the body as well as the soul. Other times, darkness was the thing, and they would cloak themselves in shadows and take pleasure in the distraction of wondering what sounds and which fingers and whose lips were these. On this particular occasion, he turned the lamp dim, enough to see them by. His eyes were starved for the shape of them, and he hoped he could wear them out so that they wouldn’t mind falling asleep in the indirect glow, so he could stay up watching.

Divested of their remaining clothes, they pushed and pulled each other toward the bed. Liquid heat swirled in his belly as Gregory opened him, his pace considerably slower now that proceedings were underway. He did not suppress his shiver, and Greg stopped licking the crease of his thigh long enough to instruct Molly, “Hold him down for me, there's a good lass. Be his ropes, yeah?”

She gave their size difference a consideration and asked how, her voice obliging and slightly muffled against Mycroft's throat, and Mycroft said, “I can think of a way.” Gregory's wide, white grin was the last thing he saw clearly as he urged her to her knees, manoeuvered her over him with firm hands on her hips, and her own became a steady soothing pressure on his ribs. He blew on her, and she squeaked and their other lover laughed. He suckled at her a little before licking into her in earnest, setting down to do the thing properly. Greg was finally easing his way inside, and Mycroft felt lit up, like he'd been called in from the rain. One hand left his chest, and he knew that somewhere above him, his sweethearts were plying one another with kisses and low sighs. By the time that hand returned to him (lower down now), Gregory's murmured endearments had turned to quiet curses and his thrusts were leading to a conclusion and Molly had shuddered herself to pieces twice already, was still half-gone and going again. His lungs burned and he adamantly _did not care_ \- he needed this more than oxygen. Bliss careened through him, an oncoming tide he could not dodge. He moaned his release and sent Molly off one last time, Greg a few seconds behind.

In the sum of things, he got his wish. They carved out places for their bodies on either side of him while filling in the hollow chambers of his heart, and even Greg drifted off before doing more than waving vaguely in the direction of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_A Bit of Earth_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3910702) starts between this chapter and the next.


	8. Approval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But then, he had other reasons to be a tad nervous this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you're wondering when the next payback shoe will eventually drop  
> I bet you're wondering when my conditional police will force you to cough up  
> I bet you're wondering how far you have now danced your way back into debt  
> This is the only kind of love, as I understand it, that there really is  
> "You Owe Me Nothing In Return"-Alanis Morissette

Over the next week, Molly and Greg coordinated so that Mycroft didn't feel quite as neglected. They had employed similar tactics while he'd been healing his injuries the year before, and if he'd noticed- and really, how could he ever fail to?- he had readily swallowed their farfetched excuses for visiting so frequently. Their clever darling was apparently still willing to be fooled. Greg confessed that he'd purposely left his shaving gel behind so he could drop by the house to retrieve it after Mycroft returned from his trip, and Molly had taken to borrowing books she had already read.

Mycroft’s latest missive had informed her in urgent murmurs that she was gold and russet and brown, burnt umber and burnt offerings, that she smelled like autumn puddings and kissed like springtime but moved like winter: fidgety shivers and distraction. She was certainly bearing that last bit out this morning, sucking in a breath as she stepped dripping into the chill. She burrowed artlessly into a thick towel she pulled off the heater. It hadn't been there when she'd got in the shower.

“Good birthday?” Mycroft asked her as he leaned over the bathroom vanity. He pretended to be more interested in a nonexistent spot on the tap than in her reply. She slowed the motions of towelling her hair long enough to study him with the one eye not buried in terrycloth. Molly saw how his shoulders were held down stiffly when they wanted to creep up- the insecurity in his confident posture- and the tiny lift of his left cheek. It struck her how very alike the Holmes brothers were at their cores; both her lover and her friend had a tendency to follow her around subtly hoping for reassurances of their worth. Mycroft had the unfortunate habit of trying too hard to make it up to her, like he thought his feelings were a burden too weighty to share. Perhaps she could relate to that, but it still made her throat close up and her fingers ache to soothe him.

Molly hurried to label the previous day, “Completely brilliant,” and watched the effect of her approval. It seemed that he honestly hadn't been quite sure that he'd got it right. It wasn't a stretch to see that he hadn't an excess of experience with celebrating. Her birthday had gone much like any of their dates, with the only difference being that the note she found inviting her to come see him after his Saturday meeting had been propped up in his own room where she woke. As soon as her eyes opened, she had searched out the small envelope and found the usual chickweed and what appeared to be a mix of spices and flour from the kitchen downstairs. The card explained: _Wheat- prosperity. Coriander- hidden worth. Clove- dignity and secret love. Allspice- compassion. Pantry form used for ease as well as indication of the overarching theme._

On the footboard chest was a transparent brolly decorated with leaves, and a soft bamboo cardigan in a rich green colour that should have made her think of moss after rain, and had inexplicably reminded her of him instead. It had never occurred to Molly to wonder where the car would take her when she gave the cabbie the address he had written. She had clocked the clues, after all, and she trusted her sweetie to pick a good place. He'd very nearly blushed when he saw her wielding his gift against the London rain. He was always a little abashed when confronted with his own presents, which was how she knew the depth of the meaning behind them.

The warm smells of the bakery had echoed the contents of his message. Mycroft had insisted that they buy some of almost everything and then taken her home to feed her breakfast in bed. He'd missed the point of not leaving the bed before the meal, but the way he reached for her hand when they were in public together- slow, sly, and shy- made up for the hassle of getting herself showered and dressed just to come back and undo it. The rest of the first day of her thirty-eighth year had been spent watching movies and eating leftover tuna casserole when they decided against leaving the house for dinner. Greg had sent her texts scattered throughout, and they'd looped him in via a Skype call much later that night. She and Mycroft had turned in while faint winter light still glowed on the other side of the curtains, but not got around to sleeping until it was technically no longer her birthday. It had been very peaceful, and she told him how much she appreciated his efforts by putting her arms around him and resting her damp head over his heartbeat in front of the foggy mirror.

Mycroft still carried a little uncertainty in the small of his back. But then, he had other reasons to be a tad nervous this morning.

*          *          *

If anything, Anna had seemed only too willing to make arrangements today. Almost... eager, which could bode well or very not. Greg was trying to be chipper about his prospects, but he was aware that unfounded optimism was sometimes more disappointing in the long run. He was worried, and Ward knew it; his son had been casting searching looks at him all morning as they double-checked his schoolbag and bundled up against the cold.

Greg shouldered the pack and warned Ward to be careful carrying the box. He let the kid take another peek once they were strapped into the cab and on their way. His birthday present for Molly was a windchime made of odds and ends he'd found that rang tinkly and sweet when rustled. It was lost keys and bent nails and bits of broken glass polished and washed up by the Thames. Ward had been captivated when Greg had pulled it out to put the finishing touches on it Friday night, and they had agreed to make another one together. Provided today went well- and it would, it simply had to- maybe they could hang the next one over Myc's porch.

Since it wasn't raining at the moment, this introduction could take place at the playground in Regent's Park where he often let the boy run off some steam before dropping him back at his mum's house. _Neutral territory_ , he thought in Mycroft’s voice. If- more likely _when_ \- the weather turned, they could duck into their nearby Italian place for lunch. The initial discomfort would be cleared by then. With any luck.

He had done this sort of thing with Anna a time or two, but he’d not been on this side of it before. There seemed to be a lot riding on it from his new perspective. He couldn't say if he had scared off any of her suitors up until now, but that fact was enough to suggest that he probably hadn't made any feel particularly welcome, either. Whatever had happened between them, he did wish Anna well, albeit in a trudging sort of way.

The slump went out of his support for her when he spotted her by the swings. Anna's nose was red like he'd known it would be in this frosty air, and he remembered her before everything went sour, when they were kids and happy. He wanted that same joy to be hers, because he had found it again himself. While their cub zipped over to hug his mother hello, Greg resolved to make absolutely certain that he didn't glower at the next person his ex-wife saw fit to introduce him to.

When his partners arrived a few minutes later, Anna greeted them with a friendly wave and a bright smile that wasn't quite sure how involved it should get. When she saw how awkward they both felt, she committed to reaching out. Greg let out a breath and watched everyone warm up to each other.

*          *          *

They were seated in the back of a restaurant (a local treasure if the baked ravioli was any indication) the four adults and one child whose mind was now more alert than the rest of him.

The boy had announced, “I met your brother, he's cool!” and waited to be turned loose on the jungle gym. He'd worn himself out, torn blisters open on his palms and scraped his knobby knees through his jeans, and then shrugged and grinned when both of his parents and Molly had reached for plasters and ointment. (He’d opted for the ones with Hello Kitty for his hands, and his legs were now protected by ninja turtles. Mycroft respected the logic in this decision.)

This hidden bistro boasted a prepackaged gluten-free pizza, which appeared on the menu as the sole concession in anticipation of dietary restrictions.  Ward requested it with the enthusiastic relish of someone for whom ordering his own meal was still novel, and peppered his speech with politeness like he wasn't sure how much was needed. “Hello! I would like to order, please: _my_ pizza. The one with no bad stuff. Please! And thanks!” From the familiar way the hostess had greeted Gregory and Anna, it was possible that the meal was largely stocked for the youngest Lestrade’s sake. He was following the talking with a sleepy interest, half slouched and drawing the end of one small finger through the beaded condensation on his water glass.

Anna was somewhat known to Mycroft, though he'd not counted on her being quite so endearing in person. She had noticed and done her level best to ease any bashfulness by pulling them into conversations and making them laugh. So far, Mycroft liked them both a fair amount, and without reservations despite himself.

Mycroft heard Anna ask, “Is 'Molly' short for something?” and he made an extra effort to keep his face completely immobile. This particular topic was a private favourite of his (and of Gregory’s) and if he was bored, he would blow the dust off and ruminate on the psychosocial implications of having the option of a unique name and choosing to tame it back to such an unassuming moniker. He had compiled plenty of facts and no proper understanding. The _why_ of Molly confounded him, a puzzle to the last. On the surface, he had much in common with her. Perhaps that was the root of the blind spot. He expected Greg to come in at an odd angle, and while he had his scope on the unpredictable man, Molly would do the most surprising things.

The Molly in question cleared her throat. “Ehhyyyes. It's, um,” she swallowed, “Moelwyn.” Her face was scrunched up, an embarrassed apology scribbled in the creases around her nose.

Anna looked intrigued. “Isn't there-”

“-a mountain,” they finished together, and Molly nodded.

“Were you named after it?”

The woman made a swishy gesture with her breadstick. “Apparently? That is to say, I think so. I brought it up to my dad once, and he got this far away look and said, 'Mm-hm' and that was sort of the end of it. But. Well, my middle name is Dail, so I suppose I was actually named for base camp. My parents were... adventurous.” If Molly’s eyes had still been open, Mycroft had the notion that they would be rolled skyward. She was lovely when she turned that shade of red, and rarely did anything do the trick well enough.

“Hippies,” Greg stage-whispered to his ex-wife, and then actually snickered aloud. Their Molly gave an exasperated snort, but Mycroft could tell she was biting down hard on a grin.

 _Success_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without the internet, I would have no idea that there is a playground inside Regent's. How neat is that? We really do live in strange times.  
> Here is [Molly's brolly](http://www.japantrendshop.com/komore-leafy-shade-parasol-p-1848.html).


	9. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to Greg that they were comforting each other, but he wasn't clear on why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to see you walking backwards  
> To get the sensation of you coming home  
> I wanted to see you walking away from me  
> Without the sensation you're leaving me alone  
> "Time And Time Again"-Counting Crows

Anthea found her boss staring hard at the far corner of his desk, like it had offended him. Without looking up, he said, “I didn't eat the macarons, and it's worrying me.”

“You spent forty minutes waffling over whether or not you ought to order them, and then you didn't _have_ any? I have a full cast of irritating men in my life, and you're always at the top of the credits.” She very nearly let the affection tinge her voice. It was a close thing.

Holmes flicked his fingers like he wished he could dismiss the entire situation that way. “I shared them out. Saved you a couple.” He glanced at a spot somewhere past her right ear when she set the updated file down, and then he was back to glowering at random objects.

“Using your indecision to foster a sense of camaraderie, why not.” He didn't even pretend to smile, and she felt justified in edging into the greyer area of their semi-professional distance by coming over as mildly concerned. “Sir?”

She watched him shift his attention to the paperwork sorted in front of him, but he appeared to be more invested in trying to get his point across. Haltingly, he explained, “I lost my taste for them. Once I had them. And I fear that this might be a problem in other aspects of my life.”

Having spent well over a decade being someone's handler meant that she could imagine the scene quite easily: he would have opened the box to find a dozen treats in bright cheery colours and instantly determined that he didn't really need anything more than this after all. Early in the days of their uneven partnership, she'd seen the man go into shops when they landed in strange cities without all the necessities- a good toothbrush or an intimidating red pocket square- and he would be drawn to frivolous knick-knacks. She had asked once, in what became their first conversation to not revolve around work, if he wasn't going to buy an item after all, and he'd blinked at her and replied that purchasing it wasn't necessary. It took some time before she grasped that he could study an object for a few minutes and then set it carefully back down and walk away satisfied, having mentally played out the rest of his days as the possessor of the thing. He'd confided- on a long and maudlin midnight train ride- that it resulted in less clutter in need of dusting. To date, she'd been unable to pull it off. She wondered if that level of sustained intensity didn’t burn him up, too.

Anthea hoped that extreme levels of cheek might snap him out of yet another blue funk, as it had done in the past. She suspected that her attitude was the real reason Holmes kept her on hand. They didn't actually need to spend much time interacting to do their work; most of it was unspoken delegation and timely wrangling. She was qualified and skilled enough to be essentially autonomous, and with another person, she might have been. But Mycroft Holmes was in need of an assistant who could tame his micromanaging with the judicious application of snark. She wore that hat perfectly, and made it look good. “You're seeing allegories in pastries now? Have you told your doctor?”

Holmes was the only person she knew who could set a pen down with that amount of suppressed exasperation. “I asked them to move in with me. To gasps of horror followed by qualified, tentative agreements.” He was almost definitely exaggerating here, but he was fiddling with his cufflinks nevertheless. Clearly it hadn't gone as predicted, though it was possible he had launched ahead without thinking. This was one area where he lacked enough experience to know what to be wary of. He continued, “Gregory has begun to collect packing boxes.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

In response, he looked up and she saw a face he only ever pulled after the office door was closed behind them: he winced in silent uncertainty. She understood exactly where this talk was going, because she could see where it was coming from.

“Ngh,” she said.

*          *          *

Greg had been fairly sure that Molly was making it up. “Never heard of a flat-chilling party before, _chérie_.”

“It's the opposite of a housewarming,” she’d informed him, and he had heard her grin even over the phone. “Instead of plants and throw pillows, I'll bring bubble wrap and tape.”

She was as good as her word. She showed up with supplies on the eve of moving day and helped him pack the last of the debris of his life away. “It seems colder in here all of a sudden,” he murmured, folding his arms and looking around, and his voice bounced around in the empty cupboards and cleared spaces until it sounded like he was hearing himself from the other end of a tunnel.

Molly unslouched the sleeves of her jumper and nodded. “Then we did it right.” She was shivering slightly, and they huddled together for a minute. He had found that he had a tendency to wrap Mycroft in his arms slowly and then ever tighter, as if the other man might startle or shatter if he simply gave him a squeeze without warning. Greg had no such compunctions about telegraphing his movements to Molly; most of the time, she was able to anticipate him.

It occurred to Greg that they were comforting each other, but he wasn't clear on why. Well, he knew what he was a bit down about: this was the place he'd got after he split with Anna, and it had been surprisingly rough to take his and Ward’s artwork off of the walls and fridge. He was definitely looking forward to tomorrow and all, but he couldn't help but wax nostalgic over the unmaking of his home. It put him in mind of the impermanence of everything, and made him ask dumb questions. “Are you going tell me what's wrong, blueberry, or should I start guessing? You know that Mycroft can get you out of your lease early if you want to come along ahead of time. Is that it?”

“No,” she said, her reply stuck in the weave of his shirt, “I'm not quite ready. I wish I was, but evidently I won't be rushed on this. I’m,” she licked her lips and tried again, “I don’t want this to be the last time it's just us. I love you even when Mycroft isn't here, you know.”

He was a little ashamed, but he hadn’t been sure. His chest caved in like he was trying to breathe out more air than he had. She said it plenty, but Greg realised that he had been harbouring the most niggling doubt that Molly’s feelings for him were an area effect that was directly related to how close he was standing to their third at any given moment. She had nudged him and Mycroft together because she had seen what they meant to each other even as they both tried to hide it. So deep down, he had assumed that when she told him that she loved him, it was at least partially by proxy.

Molly must have understood the relief that was lurking behind his automatic reply, judging by the tender eyeroll she gave him. She took a breath and said, “Do you remember when I told you before, about Zahnwhea and Patrick?”

She hadn’t mentioned their names, but he filled in the gaps from their conversation in the café- had it been a whole year ago? “Your exes who got married, yeah?”

She summarised a childhood friendship, a teenage crush, and a university relationship in a few beats by explaining that she had fancied a girl who prefered someone else. He assured her that this was a tale he was somewhat familiar with, and she giggled thickly and swallowed, “As it turns out, I make an excellent third wheel. Which is fine, until the other two line up and I become less necessary.” Her voice was wavery and soft at the end, and he held her fast for a minute, hoping for the right words.

“Moll, it won't be like that.” Greg decided- words already rushing out- to be as honest as he could be. She wouldn’t hold it against him. “If anything, I’m worried about _my_ position.”

She looked gratifyingly bewildered as she hurried to say that they couldn’t possibly do without him. Then she laughed and added, “Well, I mean that literally: we would probably accomplish very little if you weren’t around to drag us out the door.”

“Speaking of!” he said, and took her out for dinner. The flat wasn’t really the ideal temperature for a warm meal now. He thought, as he shrugged on his coat, that leaving it behind certainly felt easier than it had an hour ago.

Late that night, he stared at the ceiling in a room that no longer fit around him and was too bright with no curtains to block out the streetlights. He thought about Molly and Mycroft, about what he knew of them and how much he still didn't. There were so many stories left untold in the face of daily life, only traces of surface damage to show wounds made before his time. Certainly, they had all fingered the edges of one another's rends, but there was a lot they hinted at without ever voicing. The other two showed every sign of being perfectly fine with never using proper language so long as the gist could be scraped together. If that was to change, he would have to begin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it's me, I'll likely wake up in the morning, regret everything, and do minor edits that no one else notices, but hey! Hugs, y'all! Thank you for sticking with me while real life kicks my butt.
> 
> Chérie= dear, if you can't see the mouseover


	10. Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt a fond smile crawl across his face despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bring me to your house  
> Tell me sorry for the mess  
> Hey, I don't mind  
> You're talking in your sleep  
> Out of time  
> Well, you still make sense to me  
> Your mess is mine  
> "Mess Is Mine"-Vance Joy

Gregory was a sprawler, and Mycroft knew that. His favourite copper had a way of taking up all the available space, of claiming an area from wall to wall and doing so with a cocky grin and an easy manner. The times Greg had stayed over, he had demonstrated this by draping limbs over the entire bed and whoever was in it. If Mycroft had thought that the addition of Molly would force Greg into a smaller share of the room, he’d been laughably mistaken; she was simply another body to bear the brunt of flailing wiry arms wrapped snug around them and warm, heavy legs tucked over their own. When Mycroft woke in the hours before dawn, startled out of some half remembered fear, it was often to find his lover pulling him near in his own dreams and muttering something unintelligible but no less soothing for it. It stood to reason that Greg would move into Mycroft’s home the same way: heedlessly covering every surface like spilled paint on a blank canvas.

It began before he’d even brought the first box past the foyer. He started digging last-minute things- coins and paperclips found under furniture- out of his bulging pockets and setting them down on the entryway table. He stopped to consider the sliding pile of bits for a moment, then reached into the bag over his shoulder and pulled out a sturdy clay pinch pot that had been carefully smeared with a livid purple glaze. He scooped the handful in, gave Mycroft a wink, and bounded up the stairs with the luggage. Mycroft turned to watch him go and then lifted the little catchall and (with one hand over it to contain the mess) read the notation carved into the bottom of what had to be one of the ugliest pieces of crockery to ever find a haven within these walls:

_Ward L_

_Age 6 and A Haff_

He felt a fond smile crawl across his face despite himself.

He looked up in time to catch sight of Molly blithely weighed down with too great an armload, and stepped over to lift the top box off before it could slide out from under her chin. It was streaked with darker brown where the first few raindrops had taken a detour on their way to the ground. They had hoped the weather would hold a little longer. Alas.

 _Where_? she inquired with an eyebrow quirk.

He directed her to the bottom of the staircase as Gregory came trotting back down. With the storm bearing down on them, it seemed best to stage everything in here and then move it upstairs after. “For now,” Mycroft said and she tried to nod without dislodging what remained of her burden. He hid a laugh inside a sigh and took a few more precarious items from her stack.

Greg chided Molly as he helped, “You’ve seen firsthand and up close what overdoing it does to joints. Look after yourself.”

“Just trying to get as much done as I can. If we're finished with the lorry before I have to go, I’ll just take it back to the shelter with me.” She shook her newly unloaded arms out.

Greg stopped on his way back out the door for more and looked back with a furrow between his brows. “You don’t _have_ to leave at all,” he said, “You could stay.”

In his mind, Mycroft loudly added _please_ to the end of Gregory’s entreaty. Outwardly, all he managed was to hold his breath and look hopeful where she couldn’t see him. He was a little on edge about having Gregory all to himself. Molly was a token in his pocket to calm his nerves; the thought of taking this first step in her absence made his heart pound all the harder, and not only out of excitement.

She smiled, “I know you won’t push me out the door.”

“Do you, though?” Greg replied. His lowered voice when Molly caught up to him made Mycroft strain to hear. “I hate to think of you alone, especially with your concerns.”

Before Mycroft could ask for clarification on what she was worried about, she was assuring Greg that he’d sorted all that the night before and reminded them that she had obligations. “Besides, I’m sure that I will be here more often than not. You two should have some time to get everything situated how you like it.”

*          *          *

“Hardly anything serious today, that’s nice!” The worst ailment Molly had seen on this particular occasion had been the onset of what threatened to be a nasty flu if left unchecked. Mostly, her volunteer clinic had drawn in some late winter colds, infected cuts, vitamin deficiencies, and the troubles that plague the impoverished and homeless.

Molly carefully shook a small bag of Skittles onto a paper napkin and they separated them by colour. She liked the red ones best, and Cassie hurried to nudge them away from her precious citrus flavours. The blackcurrant they split evenly, and Cass was always willing to make up the inequality in numbers with most of the greens. She was a good friend.

When Molly asked Cassie what her plans were for the evening, she frowned as she bit into a lime candy. “I think I’m going out with Wiggins.”

“You haven’t decided yet? It’s tea already.”

“No, I mean,” she glanced back at the closed door for a second, then hissed, “ _going out_ with Wiggins.”

 _Oh_. But, “I thought-” Molly had been given the impression that the younger woman was distinctly uninterested in that sort of activity, but she supposed there must be ways of dating that didn’t eventually lead to sex. Either way, she was sure it wasn’t her place to intrude. She rounded the unspoken query off with, “Okay.”

After a short silence, Cassie asked quietly, “Am I a terrible person?”

Molly had to unscrunch her baffled face to answer, “You would have to do something fairly heinous before you deserved that.”

“Is it unfair to just enjoy this until it ends?”

Molly didn’t know, and she was obliged to say so. She thought of her men and offered the best advice she had, “I tend to favour an honest approach, and he’s a decent type, really. He might surprise you.”

“He already has,” Cassie admitted. She seemed to mull it over for a minute. “Just a little longer. I’ll see how it goes.”

*          *          *

The cloudy grey had given way to true night, and they were wrapping up and winding down the unpacking. Greg was clearing out a drawer under Mycroft’s- _their_ \- bed for his own things when he spotted the filing box. Myc was quick to lift it, but not before Greg caught the sight of a name and the whiff of a lead. “Who’s Sherrinford?”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a line and looked away as he spoke. “My older brother.”

He had put that much together on half-formed hints. “Where is he?”

“Rather firmly out of the picture, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said, softly and resigned. He adjusted his grip. “I’ll move this to the basement.”

“Babe,” Greg struggled to his feet, “let me help you carry that?” and he meant more than just the physical load.

Mycroft gave him first a hesitant smile, and then one side of the heavy carton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Things are happening.  
> [Windless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4180725) covers the background Bill Wiggins/Cassie romance. I sort of love their story.


	11. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside on the pavement below the front windows, Mycroft Holmes was _oscillating_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read [_A Bit of Earth_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3910702), part of this chapter is a reaction from Mycroft's view.
> 
> Way down the street there's a light in his place  
> He opens the door, he's got that look on his face  
> And he asks you where you've been  
> You tell him who you've seen  
> And you talk about anything  
> "Baker Street"-Gerry Rafferty

It was a week of waking up next to (or partially under) Gregory, of tripping over shoes that weren’t his, of sleepy kisses evolving into enthusiastic sex, of a steep decline in coffee reserves and an increase in towel usage before it properly sank in for Mycroft that Gregory was _here_. Whatever else might be wrong in his day was balanced by the presence of both a sympathetic ear and a happy distraction in the hours he had previously given to anxious over-management and loneliness. His heart felt lighter without the weight of his lover's spare key jingling against his own on the ring.

It was better than he had projected.

He had offered the attic for the resident artist’s personal use, and Greg had set to making the space his own as soon as he was certain that Mycroft truly meant it. The skylights and windows contributed to the feeling of wide emptiness, but the space truly did beg for a bit more filling. (He had plans to help on that front.) The room was already furnished with a rough-hewn table along one wall, and the two men had cajoled Greg’s ancient sofa up two flights the first morning, when it had become undeniably apparent that his darling had no intention of throwing out a, “perfectly good couch, Myc, my beloved carrot, honestly.”

“‘Carrot’ is apt,” Mycroft sighed, eyeing the offense to his line of sight, but he’d already given in.

Greg grinned, hearing his protests turn token. “Still sturdy.”

They proved that thirty-two minutes later, where they had stopped to regroup and reassess in the upstairs hallway after the failed second attempt to haul the battered thing up the narrow steps to its permanent destination. (He had taken the liberty of kissing the sweat-dampened skin of Gregory’s temple, and then his neck, and his daring had been rewarded in spades.) While they recovered, Greg had mumbled something about dyeing the corduroy fabric, and Mycroft had flatly forbid it and held a serious expression for a full count of three. After all that, he was invested in keeping the sofa as it was. He’d formed a slight attachment.

Work and the novelty of sharing his living quarters had kept him rather busy, so Mycroft had little chance to pause and catch his breath. When he did, it was to miss Molly bone-deep and all of a sudden.

He was coming back up the stairs on Friday morning, mostly ready for the day in a navy blue suit. He'd learned to check on Greg (who had a habit of unerringly finding the snooze button without ever waking). When he heard their lady's voice on speakerphone he imagined- just for a quarter of an instant- that he would find her behind his bedroom door, as well, perched on the steps to his loft bed and chatting to Greg. Longing tugged at his heart for his distant partner. Before he pushed open the door and joined the phone conversation, he recalled some private concern of Molly’s being hinted at the previous weekend as Gregory was moving in. She would be over that very night. Surely if he asked, all would be revealed. Entirely out of the question. Of course.

It was probably nothing.

Then the breadth of his miscommunication was exposed in the incident with the garden. It became apparent to Mycroft that it might be time to seek an insider’s perspective with an outsider’s advice.

So he trudged along to Baker Street.

*          *          *

Sherlock had never thought to witness this. Outside on the pavement below the front windows, Mycroft Holmes was _oscillating_. Just for a few seconds and with little actual backwards movement, so that anyone else might have seen a man considering a nibble from the café downstairs, but Sherlock saw hesitation and chagrin. He shook his head, and waited.

“How is my niece?” Mycroft began when he made it inside, evidently hoping to slide up to his neck into this conversation before Sherlock knew he was dipping a toe. Alas for his older brother, he’d learned this lesson especially well. It wasn’t even a challenge.

It was, however, almost a suitably shiny distraction. In truth, Elanor’s lopsided development had been sparking some furtive research of late. Sherlock felt guilty in some undefinable way, like he was betraying his faith in his adopted daughter by worrying over little things. The trouble was, he couldn’t tell which articles were comforting because they were designed to placate and soothe the lip-chewing of a novice parent, and which were based on actual facts and evidence. In the backroom of his mind palace, he could hear his own voice with a younger lilt, confidently pointing out that everyone said pretty much the same thing anyway: not all babies begin to walk at the same time. Physically, there was nothing the matter with Elanor. She possessed two strong legs and ten wiggly toes; she just seemed to think that crawling at warp speed was the only way to travel, and was determined to demonstrate her argument. What didn’t really help at all ~~as usual~~ was the memory of his mother’s voice from the next room tacking on that children who were advanced in one area were frequently deficient in another. He was a single weak moment away from ringing up his dad, texting ~~Gideon~~  Greg, and polling anyone else who had ever cared for a child just to get a sample group.

“Frustrating,” he responded at last, aiming a fond glance at the mess of colourful periodic table stacking blocks and stuffed toys that he’d hastily swept into a corner with the side of one foot. The star of the show sat with her uneven pigtails bobbing as she babbled animatedly to her fuzzy bee companion about the latest trip to “te shops” and the variety of digestives. She was otherwise noticeably stationary and still in her bouncer, and Sherlock knew the pages of deduced fears that Mycroft could scribble down based on her disinterest. He steeled up to meet his older sibling’s gaze, and was took heart when all he received was a bracing nod. Mycroft saw, and wasn’t overly concerned. That was more comforting than he would have admitted out loud.

What issued forth from Mycroft instead followed the familiar pattern of banter, and that was even better. “Coming from you. The cycle is complete.”

“What's truly circular is that you're looking for tips on your relationship when your girlfriend is the very one who advised me on mine. Wouldn't it be simpler to remove the middleman?”

“I only wanted to check on you,” he tried, but he changed direction when he saw that Sherlock wasn’t buying it. “‘Girlfriend.’ Dear god. I’m not fourteen.”

“As evidenced by your having romantic feelings for people who know your name.” He’d been mostly joking, but he saw a flash of something long-buried draw Mycroft’s shoulders up.

“Stop shaking my jar.”

 ~~Godfrey~~  “… Greg has finally moved in with you.” He was beginning to suspect that he'd never think of the right name first.

“You approve?” Mycroft asked, giving a flawless performance of utter boredom.

“It makes things tidier, having you all in the same place. Except you aren’t.”

Mycroft mustered his flagging courage and added, “Yet.”

“Our Molly has a tenacious grip on her freedom. How difficult for you.” Mycroft pressed my lips together in exactly the way that signaled an oncoming retaliation so imminent he could see red lights and hear the countdown. But something happened. Some _one_ happened.

“No,” John grumped, stomping in with a plate of dry toast, “No, nope. Enough of this, with your mutual sniping and your cryptic bullshit." Sherlock wrestled with the instinct to take a step back from such a glare. John spun to direct a finger at the elder Holmes, warding off protests with a firm set to his jaw. “What I can tell you,“ he said, “is that not three months gone, Molly Hooper sat across from me in that very chair and asked if you were embarrassed- no-” John squinted like he could access the exact word she’d used by peering into the past, “ _-ashamed_ of her. So I wonder if maybe you two geniuses could stop trying to torpedo each other’s feelings long enough to consider mending hers?”

Mycroft was completely aghast, and ghostly pale beneath a flush. “She- what?”

“She did. I felt compelled to give her marshmallows,” Sherlock admitted. Then, to John, he hissed: “You’re breaking the rules.”

“I never signed any friendship contract, or whatever the two of you have going. Honestly, would Molly do any different if she thought one of us was cocking things up?”

On consideration, Molly had done everything she could to give the game away to John once he’d agreed to move back home. At some point, she had begun subtly treating his and John’s eventual relationship like a forgone conclusion, and Sherlock had to wonder if things would have flowed so smoothly without her nudges keeping him on the path.

“You didn’t feel this was vital information?” Mycroft asked him, and his voice sounded like jamming gears or a careless bow-stroke.

“Well, I tried to bring it up and you said that you knew. I thought you must have sorted it out by now. The dancing was a good start.”

“... Start?”

Every eye in the flat was on Mycroft. Even Elanor stopped discussing things with her bee to cast a disappointed look at her uncle.

“That’s, oh.” John threw up his hands.

Sherlock shot his husband a sidelong glance, “John, could you?”

“Happy to.”

Once he’d gone to take out his stifled frustrations on the kettle, Sherlock quietly and ~~for once~~ succinctly laid out the problem. “As a statement of intent to the public, your actions at the wedding reception were adequate. Good, even, considering it’s you. But,” he continued in a graceless rush, “as an unambiguous declaration of everlasting affection: underwhelming.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, bleakly staring through the wall ahead like a man receiving ill news he’d been expecting all along.

Sherlock decided to take pity. “I can’t claim to know the intricate workings of your dynamic- _some_ of us have hobbies- but what I _have_ noticed is that you rarely approach either target on their own terms.” He went on to outline some of his observations. The trouble was that Greg would call him out for it, and Molly was, “more likely to settle. She won’t want to make you uncomfortable. But maybe love is about letting someone else sit in your chair even though it’s the best spot. Or _because_ it is.”

“Did Molly teach you that?”

“Some of it, yes. Some of it was Mr. Chatterjee.”

“I’m to take direction from a sandwich-maker?”

“He has had many marriages, some of them concurrently. I think that qualifies him as an expert. Plus, he’s a friend of the family. He gave Elanor botulism for her birthday.”

Mycroft pulled such a face that he felt it critical to his neighbor’s safety to explain. “The cuddly version,” he said, “the orange plushy thing there under the table. It might need a wash again. She chews on it. I don’t know why.” She had never submitted to putting teethers to their proper use, but the soft microbe saw an average of seven minutes of daily gnawing.

His brother was visibly relieved at the change of subject, but still turned inward. He said haltingly, “When you were small, perhaps not quite two, we offered you an orange wedge to taste. You spit it out like it had betrayed your trust, then you demanded another. You tasted every piece of orange before you made up your mind that you liked them.”

“One can never have too much data.”

*          *          *

Tuesday evening, the clouds rolled back just enough to reveal a startling sunset peeking between the buildings. Molly stood admiring for a few beats on her fire escape, wielding the appropriated garden snips with one hand and answering the phone with the other. The air was cool but lacked the deep bite of chill, and she raised her face into the wind and hummed with satisfaction. _Spring_.

On the line, Mycroft asked, “Would you mind terribly if Gregory and I came calling?”

“Not at all!” she declared. A weekday visit in her own home from both men was unheard of. She could think of little she wanted more.

“And if we stayed?”

“Please do,” she replied evenly, and she spotted movement.

Greg waved at her from down the alleyway below, and she could see Mycroft’s overnight bag and cautious smile as he lowered the phone and raised his voice: “Then you’d better let us in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Botulism](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/6708/images/34145/): a snuggly version of a gift no one wants! The blocks are [here](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/e5f7/).  
>  It's not recommended that you give babies under one year acidic fruits, because acid- well- _burns_. For more, go [here](http://wholesomebabyfood.momtastic.com/forbiddenbabyfood.htm).  
>  Special thanks to Notidiotproof for explaining about digestives.


	12. Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft knew the relative virtues of those lips against his own skin and that curve of muscle under his fingers, and he was blindsided by the memories of both of those sensations, like opening two drawers at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtuous sensibility  
> Escape velocity
> 
> Nothing can compare  
> To when you roll the dice and swear your love's for me  
> "Dice"-Finley Quaye

It was swiftly brought home to Mycroft that the reason they rarely stayed over at Molly’s flat- and never together- had as much to do with a lack of space as any preference of his to keep to ground that knew his feet.

Once they were inside with their bags, Mycroft slipped off to the kitchen to stow the takeaway and frowned at how easily it fit in her small fridge. If he looked too closely, he was certain he would find a thin coat of dust on top of the high surfaces. If Molly couldn’t see things, she mostly forgot they were there, and she hadn’t been spending much time here recently. Several of her things had been left around his place without either party addressing how she was seeping into his spaces. He took a moment to predict what she'd bring over next, and where she would leave it.

Her flat was cozy and seemed bright even with the lights off. It was a riot of contradictory colour-schemes and always smelled faintly stale under the scent of cleaner, tea, and lingering incense, likely due to the age of the building and the small number of windows that weren’t painted shut. He had traced the constant hint of ale to the scorch-marked trolley in the kitchen, and when he’d asked she had explained that it had been liberated from her family’s pub. She had a few items that he knew had been gifts judging by the discordant visual note of a prominent and purposeful placement where she normally decorated incidentally, often by simply failing to put away albums and books with pretty cover art.

When he returned to where he’d left his darlings, Molly was coming back along the narrow corridor with her arms full of blankets. Gregory caught on before he did, relieving her of the bundle and following her to the source of the spare coverlets for more. Curious, Mycroft went after them and sped up at Greg’s victorious hoot announcing that he’d discovered treasure in her linen cupboard: “Board games!”

Ignoring that particular kettle of fish for the moment, Mycroft said, “Might I inquire as to your intentions? Are we building a blanket fort?”

“How big is my mattress?” Molly asked as pointedly as was possible when muffled by the quilt she was wrestling out of a stack of what appeared to be decorative towels.

“Not very,” he answered, understanding now.

Greg hummed in agreement. “Too true. Even I have to scrunch up a little. I don’t think you’d rest well by yourself in her bed, tall as you are. Add us all together and it becomes a comedy routine.”

While he knew his notion of _enough room_ and Gregory’s were entirely different, Mycroft had to admit to a mild discomfort on the handful of previous occasions he had visited his pathologist at her own place. Aside from the snug fit, her old bed had lumps, squeaky springs, and it dipped in the middle, effectively forcing a cuddle. (...On balance, it was survivable, actually.) His back hadn’t thanked him before, and it almost certainly wouldn’t tomorrow either, but he had been at a loss. Grand, sweeping productions were exactly the sort of things Molly would appreciate, he knew; alas, his style was more imperceptible gestures and small gifts. Even this- showing up unannounced with Gregory in tow in the middle of the week- tasted scandalous to his palate. He never would have gone through with it if his favourite inspector hadn’t spent most of his lunch break on the phone assuring him that Molly would be charmed and not put off by the lack of proper scheduling nor put out by the imposition due to the change in venue. Neither of them had thought ahead enough to realise that they would run into trouble with the sleeping arrangements, but so long as they were together, it would be fine. _Or close enough to fine, anyway_ , he thought, tapping the toe of one shoe contemplatively against the hard floor. At least she had a rug in the sitting room. She passed him an extra cushion, and in her face he saw something he recognised: she was relieved to not be alone and still a little nervous that he’d change his mind and scoot right back out again. It must be a feeling she was more accustomed to than he had known.

 _Ashamed of her_. That rankled every time he heard it echo through his mind, John’s voice like a skipping record. He wasn't sure if he was more upset over Sherlock and John knowing before he had, or that Molly had felt it an easier solution to look for comfort for her sorrows elsewhere and never mention it to him. (And hadn't he sought aid from the same place, after all?) He figured he had only himself to blame either way. _I am rubbish at this, as predicted._ That cut especially deep because he hadn’t really been bad at something he’d set his mind to before. Or maybe he’d just never attempted anything he couldn’t think his way through.

The lady of the house suggested that they choose a game to play. “I’ve been- um- renegotiating terms of service with my telly lately, and I have seen everything on Netflix. I think Cassie’s still got my _Nuns on the Run_ , and we can’t play _Sorry_ , either; Sherlock melted most of the pawns a couple of years ago. I haven’t got around to binning it yet.”

“I’ll reimburse you,” Mycroft intoned automatically. (How many times had he had to say that?) He considered for the briefest of seconds replacing her ancient television while he was at it, but he suspected she would take umbrage.

She smiled at him. “It's okay.”

Greg stared after her as she shuffled back toward the front room. “Is that… a regular thing? I mean, why?”

“Our coffees were a shade too Irish, and he had unresolved feelings of contrition.”

“Sherlock’s emotions tend to lead to property damage, as I’m sure you’ll recall,” Mycroft said.

Greg raised his eyebrows. He remembered.

“In retrospect,” Molly called out, “we should have picked a different game.”

He and Greg settled on _Monopoly_ , which required some convincing. “I dunno, baby, I’ve got cousins who still won’t talk about our last game, and it’s been twenty-some-odd years,” Gregory cautioned him. He gave him a pat and a general assurance that it wouldn’t be so bad, and they returned to the sitting room to set up the board in the nest Molly had made on the floor.

Then Mycroft noticed this set was equipped with a digital banking system that didn’t match the rest of the edition. “How… inelegant,” he sniffed, fiddling with the plastic bank card as they unpacked the pieces.

Greg crowed, “You’re just put out that you won’t be able to hide extra money up your sleeves!”

“I would never,” he said primly.

“That’s not what I heard.”

Mycroft faced Molly and blinked round eyes at his accuser, “My brother,” he replied, “is a sore loser, and his grumbles should be disregarded. I am quite capable of besting any foe without resorting to cheating.” He undid his cuffs and began carefully rolling up his sleeves.

Greg took the opportunity to up the stakes and make things interesting, since he couldn’t talk them out of this disaster. Strip Monopoly, he said, would remove the temptation of hedging his bets on later games. “Or, you know, it’ll shift the temptation in other directions.”

“Always ready with an excuse to take your clothes off,” Molly said.

“Do I need one? I didn’t know you had a dress code.” Gregory had dropped down beside her and was heedlessly buying up every square he came to while playing with her hair. He gave it a tug and she made a little chirp of delight when she got a look at her plait.

She aimed a grin behind her. “Where did you learn to do a herringbone?”

“My nan. She lived with us until. Until.” Greg ducked his head, crestfallen. “It was… a great comfort, having her around.” he said, and between the words Mycroft heard the story of an angry household where even the silences were too loud. He caught Molly’s sad eyes and knew she could hear it, too. Of course she could. Greg went on, “First with the arthritis, and then after the stroke, she couldn't manage her hair so easily anymore. She didn’t want to cut it, so…”

“That was good of you,” Molly murmured.

Greg almost achieved a chuckle. “She also tried to teach me needlework, but I haven't got the patience.”

“I- er. I can do that.” Mycroft admitted lamely and his lovers gave him a smile and a half between them.

He was becoming more frustrated with his inability to say the right words. At work, he could prepare his lines to some extent. It was harder when he engaged with sentiment. Love didn't seem to be something one could rehearse for.

His pewter car came to rest on one of the yellow spaces that was still open. He considered picking up the deed to throw his opponents off of his ultimate goal, but in the end he parallel parked his marker along the text box and didn’t buy it after all. He was saving up for the deeper blues.

Molly had her own strategy, and cheering up the atmosphere with unapologetic silliness seemed to be part of her agenda. “The Water Works! Now I have authority over water. I can order it about.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I will be a fair ruler to my droplets.”

“She means to corner the market. Electric Company is next, you watch,” Mycroft warned Greg, hoping to help distract him both from his sad memories and from noticing that he had just stopped on Fleet Street. At least he was successful in the former.

“I _like_ to watch. Your trousers, please.” Gregory demanded. When Mycroft protested that he was still wearing his shoes and socks, Molly practiced her newfound leadership by allowing that he could put his footwear back on again. The very idea of doing so rattled around the sink in his mind, clanging like cutlery and sounding absurd. Fine, nevermind then.

He asked for Molly’s bra as her Income Tax, only to have that backfire when she somehow wiggled it out from under her tee shirt. “ _Of course_ I’m going for the Electric Company. The utilities are only really useful if you collect the set. Water is my favourite, though,” she confided as she handed the bra over.

Clever thing.

When he landed on Water Works on his next turn, he commented, “You know, they found water on Mars,” lurching at any topic to make himself forget that he was in naught but his pants from the waist down and more or less presentable in the upper hemisphere, though newly missing the green tie in Molly hands. He felt ridiculous. He burrowed into the quilt around his shoulders, trying to feel less exposed facing them from his side of the board, distant as the moon.

“Yes! But I don’t know that it matters so much.”

“Why wouldn’t it? If there's water, well, there could be,” Gregory dropped to a whisper, “ _aliens_.” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that must have been perfectly calculated to make them giggle. Mycroft felt completely justified in taking the shirt off his back a moment later.

Molly answered, “Figuring the likelihood of life on other worlds based on whether or not it looks like ours feels pretty narrow.”

“If the planet doesn’t resemble our own, how will we even recognise- oh,” Mycroft stumbled to a stop, “that’s your point, isn’t it?”

Greg finally claimed Molly’s top, and then her mouth for a kiss that changed its mind about being brief partway through. “So you’re not excited?” he asked, his voice a husky lilt when they broke apart. Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the scientific discovery or the palpable heat between them.

“Oh yes, but I already was.”

Greg laughed into the slope where Molly’s neck met her shoulder and she arched up into the contact. Mycroft knew the relative virtues of those lips against his own skin and that curve of muscle under his fingers, and he was blindsided by the memories of both of those sensations, like opening two drawers at once. A fine shiver ran through him.

Gregory wasn’t the only one who liked to watch.

Molly scanned Mycroft’s huddled form and pursed her mouth when she saw the residue of discomfort in his hiding. Awkward was Molly’s native language, but shame was a word she never wrote. He knew she would not understand this, would read this passage and interpret fault in herself. Before she could translate the concern into a question, he reached across the board and squeezed her foot through its soft printed sock, and she lost a line of worry.

He was buoyed up by his own reassurances. Hand still on her foot, he dug the first knuckle of his thumb into one of the printed hearts covering the spot behind her toes and she growled so dark and prettily that Greg faltered while reaching for the bank. Mycroft met his eyes, gone fathomless with wanting, and felt the tension mount and settle into certainty.

In the end, it was Greg’s game, though only just. He was the last one wearing a stitch, a vest that was making no attempt to cover more than it ought. (Not that it would have done much to hide the hard length of him.) Mycroft realised he was staring and looked away, only to see Molly watching him.

“I’ll roll you for it. Um, with the dice, I mean,” she stammered, a little pink, twinkle-gazed, and tucking no hair at all behind her ears.

Greg stretched out on his side and gave them a look that was promises in darkened rooms. “Either way… I’m in the middle?”

He posed it as a question, and Mycroft shrugged. “You won.”

Mycroft rolled eleven. After a quick session of creative mental logistics, he reached over and ran his hand over and around Gregory’s thigh and used it as leverage to lower himself slowly into position. He curled up alongside him and counted the seconds until he was sliding his lips around musk and silk and meeting his fist wrapped around his lover. It was a battle not to get completely lost in the rhythm and the warm weight on his tongue and lose all art. He enjoyed the dance of this act too much to remember to draw it out, spurred on by the taste of salt and broken phrases that ended on ‘please’ and ‘more.’

He never did see exactly what Molly did, though he could certainly hazard a guess. He felt the reaction like a shockwave as Greg rocked into him and then back away, their names lost in shuddering breaths. Mycroft’s fingers found Molly’s against the jut of Greg’s hip and they wove them together as Greg tensed and groaned between them, his own hands holding Mycroft’s head in place.

A moment later into the panting stillness, Greg whispered in awe, “Angelfish. You are _filthy_.”

Mycroft heard a faint giggle from the other side of the older man. “We’ve got bigger trouble,” she replied, sitting up. “Mycroft’s been neglected long enough, don’t you think?”

Molly gave Mycroft a smoky smile and scooped up the dice again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To start, sorry this took so long to get out. Things have been weirder than usual of late, and my health hasn't been the best. 
> 
> Special shoutout to Notidiotproof for prompting me with strip _Monopoly_ when I couldn't decide what they were doing.
> 
> Yes, [_Nuns on the Run_](http://www.amazon.com/Mayfair-Games-MFG4117-Nuns-the/dp/B003A02DIE) is a real game! And the electronic bank didn't come with the original _Monopoly_ board, but I have this idea of Molly scavenging through thrift stores. (The UK properties are different than mine were, so thank goodness there are wikis for this sort of thing.)


	13. Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything would be well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a dream chaser, a star gazer that's what I am  
> But I've always known I'd come back home when I found my rainbow's end  
> Rainmakers and heart breakers could never change my plans  
> Dream chaser, that's what I am  
> "Dream Chaser"-The Judds

The smell of coffee and tingling in the arm he’d been laying on woke Greg. He rolled onto his back and flexed his hand, smiling at the spots on Molly’s ceiling and listening to Mycroft read the daily horoscopes from the paper for Molly’s benefit while she cooked breakfast. He was unwilling to move yet, but he knew the promise of kisses and caffeine would have him hauling himself up soon.

“Good morning lambkins, sugarbeet,” he called.

He could just make out Mycroft asking Molly, “Which one of us is a fuzzy mammal and which is a root vegetable?”

Molly responded with an undignified snort. “There's coffee in here,” she sang out to him over the half-wall. Siren.

“There's blankets in here,” he countered, and snuggled into them to underline his point.

“It’s dark roast,” Mycroft said, his voice seductive.

And up Greg got. He shuffled into the kitchen wrapped in a quilt to find only Molly properly dressed so far, wet hair pulled back and drying in the heat from the hob. Mycroft had a duvet around him, over his vest and trousers. Greg thought the blue birdhouses brought out his eyes, and told him so to make him smile. It worked.

“Read Aries again for me?” he asked. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but found the top of the page. Greg was too busy worshipping his mug of coffee to devote much thought to it. He was more interested in listening to Mycroft talk: the steady, almost delicate way he spoke, like words were stepping stones across a stream. He summed up when Mycroft was finished, “Something something family and such?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Molly handed Greg a plate of eggs. “Actually, on that note, my uncle wanted me to extend an invitation. He’d like an opportunity to politely menace you both at our earliest convenience.”

“Ah. Well. How concerned should we be?” Mycroft asked, looking up from his raisin toast, gripping his fork like he was prepared to die fighting with it.

Molly flipped her ponytail back behind her and hummed into her tea. “You’ve met him. He doesn’t mind anything, so long as I’m happy.”

“Yes.” Mycroft paused and repeated, more emphatically this time, “How concerned should we be?”

Molly met Greg’s eyes for a second before patting their third’s arm and assuring him there was, “Nothing to fret over.”

“Oh. Of course. All right,” Mycroft said, mollified. Greg watched him cut the corner off a piece of his toast and relax an inch. Then he heard his mobile blast Donovan’s ringtone from somewhere in the next room.

When he made it back to the table, his harried expression must have given him away, because Molly said, “Go scrub up, I'll fix you something to take with you.”

He spared a second to kiss her, firmly. “I love you,” he swore, and she laughed and waved him off while answering in kind.

On his way to the shower, he had a glimpse of Mycroft looking slightly crestfallen and did not wonder why.

*           *           *

Mycroft’s schedule had “Ward in residence” from Thursday through Sunday evening, following a hunt for some brightly coloured eggs. Now that Greg was settled, he had suggested that maybe they should start with shorter visits until everyone got to know one another better, but while Mycroft could see the logic there, he didn't want to disrupt Greg’s time with his son. It seemed to him that the quickest way to get accustomed to having a child around was not to have them elsewhere, and Gregory had agreed.

When Anna brought Ward to his door before Greg had arrived home from work, Mycroft took a few slow breaths and smothered his rising panic. Everything would be well. Gregory would arrive soon.

“You’ve got him?” Anna asked. She had managed to get away from work for long enough to ferry Ward over, but had explained that she was expected back nigh instantly.

Mycroft tried to smile and mostly failed. “I think so?”

Anna paused, “You don't sound sure.”

“I haven't looked after a child since I was one, and well. He was-” he made a face that Anna must have recognised as the universal expression of total exhaustion.

“Oh!” she said, brightening, “There are two kinds of people who are nervous around kids: those who don't know what to expect, and those who do. If you're the second kind, you’ll do fine.” She checked that they had the correct contact information (they did) and that her ex-husband was due soon (he was), and kissed her son goodbye looking far more confident in Mycroft’s guardianship than he was.

Greetings out of the way, the wide-eyed boy blurted, “You live here?” and Mycroft followed his gaze around his foyer and through doorways and up the wide staircase.

“Yes,” he replied, “would you like to choose a room?” Greg had asked, while they were unpacking and stowing his belongings, where Ward would sleep when he visited. At the time, Mycroft had answered readily, confident in his selection and already planning the decor. Recently (since Sherlock had voiced his observations) he had come to consider that perhaps a child of eight would prefer to have some say. So much of his young life was governed by the decisions of adults, but one room was as good as another to Mycroft, and it might make all the difference to Ward.

Mycroft showed him up the stairs. Upon being presented with the entire left side of the hallway, Ward ignored it in favour of asking about the right.

“What’s that room?” he asked, pointing to the far end of the corridor.

“That one is mine.”

“What about here?”

“You’ve found the loo.”

“And this?”

“Storage,” he answered shortly, aware that his tone was turning prim with his unease. He had been clear about the options, had he not?

Ward frowned, apparently confused. “Where does my dad sleep?”

_Oh. Oh damn._

Mycroft wordlessly gestured towards his own door.

The boy looked thoughtful, and Mycroft saw a shadow of Gregory in the little line between his eyebrows. “Not like bunk-beds, though?”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. Ward gave a shrug and began investigating the rooms at last, but Mycroft was sure he didn’t start breathing normally until he heard Greg arrive a few minutes later.

*           *           *

Anthea‘s coffee-induced reverie was disrupted by the startled laughter of her charge, and she looked over at Mycroft to determine what could have caused such an unlikely outburst within earshot of the rest of the office.

Since he had copped to his worry, she’d kept a closer eye on him than she normally would- she reasoned that he wouldn’t have let her into this particular level of confidence if he minded her following up- and so far she’d been happy to note that he seemed more easy about going home at the end of the day. Throughout the past year, he’d been more anxious to leave at the close of business, but anxiety didn’t necessarily speak well of a relationship. In the weeks since Greg had moved in, though, Mycroft had seemed more assured and better rested. Now he was barely even trying to stifle a mild giggle-fit during the workday, and she had to know.

“What's funny?” she asked on a sigh, putting aside her paper cup with a tinge of regret.

Mycroft looked up from his mobile. “I told Greg that I would be stuck in various meetings until after lunch, despite the impending holiday. He-” Mycroft stopped short, cut off by a rogue chuckle, “He sent me this.”

A little dubious, Anthea turned the screen to see the text. It was a photo of a grinning dark-haired boy with yellow paint on his hands, standing in what appeared to be Mycroft’s attic. He was holding up a large sheet of paper covered in baby chicks in two distinct fingerprint sizes.

“Holmes,” she said, in the most serious tone she could muster, “I think you’d better take those men some chocolate eggs.”

He nodded. “And at least one plush bunny.”

* * *

Molly’s childhood had been a hodgepodge scramble of whimsical idealism dovetailed onto gritty reality. The jars that held her candles had been label-scrubbed and oil-cut from empty scotch bottles. One of her first toys was a boxing glove with button eyes sewn on, and clothespin fairies guarded her books. The space where she’d been lulled to sleep at night by Fleetwood Mac songs had started out as a storage room. If she concentrated, she could just recall the day they’d cut the window the summer after her second birthday: a group of regulars from the pub downstairs or the ring below that bringing rusty tools on a Sunday morning, and her trying to help with a pair of pliers she’d pulled from someone’s bag- open and closing them over and again until her father had seen and carefully tugged them out of her hands with a nervous, “Thank you, Molly, good work, you’re done now.” She had looked at the hole in her wall, still unfinished, and respectfully disagreed. She had always been more for putting things together than taking them apart.

Her men were poking around in the debris of her old bedroom, tourists to her youth, and she saw quite clearly the circular path that had led to this moment, an odd brand of nostalgia, like retroactive _déjà vu_.

Greg was studying what remained on her shelves and walls, comparing the lighter bare spots to the shape of things in her own home, considering what had come with her into adulthood and what had stayed behind. He kept dipping into his pocket and the candy left over from Easter that he had stashed there. She and Mycroft were pretending not to notice.

Mycroft had shed his suit jacket in the warmth of the flat, but kept his waistcoat. He was knee-deep in the tucked-away things, peering under and behind and inside, reading her history in the things she kept hidden.

“What on-” Mycroft started, pulling a pair of rainbow tie-dyed butterfly wings out of her wardrobe. She smiled and spoke. They were formerly her Uncle Robby’s old nylon stockings, coloured, stretched over bent wire clothes hangers, and splattered with glitter. Her uncle must have seen something poetic in the repurposing. She’d worn them at her first London Pride parade, small hands clasped firmly in her dad’s and uncle’s when they realized she wouldn’t consent to stay put at home. If her father was set to march with his brother, how could she do less? They couldn’t block out the nastier spectators, but she had surprised herself in shouting her support over the muttered comments. Molly never got so loud as when she was fighting for someone else. She fingered the spot where a neighborhood boy had caught her alone a week later, playing down the street, and torn one side a bit before she could land a good kick and dash off. The nail varnish stopped it running, but it left the fabric stiff where it dried, and the hole remained. But she had understood that _salvaged_ didn’t always mean the same as _fixed,_ and that was fine.

After a moment, Greg picked up an ornate little bottle. “Perfume?” he hazarded, holding it to the light. It was the only one among her collection of vintage medicine containers that didn’t have a label, as it came empty to start with.

“Is that a tear-catcher?” Mycroft asked squinting and already on his way to certainty. Of course he would know.

“The curio shop on the next road got that in and held it for me.” She turned to Greg, “Widows would catch their tears in these, and when they’d evaporated, mourning was meant to be over.”

Greg cocked a half-smile at her. “What if they couldn’t catch any?”

“Ah, well in that case,” Uncle Robby chimed in, sticking his head around the doorway with a perfunctory rap to the frame, “compulsory partying to begin immediately following the wake. Just rent the room for twice as long and drop a mirror ball halfway through.”

“Rules are rules,” Mycroft agreed, gingerly prodding at her daybed to judge whether it was safe to sit on. It offered a little puff of dust and a rattle, and he seemed to decide against it.

“Dinner will be ready in a trice,” her uncle announced. “For eating. Of course.” He was nervous too, for all his talk.

Greg watched his retreating back. “That’s.... Huh. _He’s_ where you get that.”

He reached a hand into his pocket and paused midway to his mouth when he heard, “You’ll spoil your meal with all those jelly beans!” from the kitchen.

Mycroft dropped to the mattress after all. “He’s where she gets quite a lot, apparently,” he laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more about tear-catchers, go [here](https://victorianachronists.wordpress.com/2013/02/07/victorian-mourning-rituals-tear-catchers/)


	14. Well-Dressed Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He almost felt bad for poking at this, but she was right: he did think it was his duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've no language left to say it  
> All I do is quake to her  
> Breaking if I try to convey it  
> The broken love I make to her
> 
> All that I've been taught  
> And every word I've got  
> Is foreign to me  
> "Foreigner's God"- Hozier

First Robby tried, “Can you come get down the salad bowl, Mycroft?” and Molly pulled the stepladder from its hiding place and crossed the large kitchen with it before Mycroft could finish answering.

Then it was, “Mycroft, will you pass the butter?” and Greg—who was four paces closer—gave Robby an odd look and handed it over.

When Robby asked Mycroft to help carry away the dishes, Molly shouted, “He breaks them!” and rushed to take his place.

 _Fine_ , Robby thought as he led, backing out of the dining room with his stack of plates. There was still time. There was still dessert.

Molly met him at the sink and turned the taps on to shield their conversation from the hatch. She gave him a tight smile somewhere between reproach and amusement. “Will you stop trying to corner him?”

“As soon as I manage it, I s’pose I will quit trying.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Can't you pick on Greg?” she pleaded, “He’s more of a challenge.”

Robby wasn't worried about Greg, and didn't hesitate to say so. He knew, more or less, what to expect from that direction, and he had a good feeling about it.

When Molly had been small, Robby had joked with his brother about what sort of character they would be pleased to see her end up with. Greg Lestrade with his open face and comfortable shoulders was exactly the down-to-earth charmer Reggie had thought would be a good match for his daughter.

Stiff, staid Mycroft was a bit of a shock. Robby felt totally unprepared for him and wished like hell his younger brother was still around to squint at Mycroft and suss him out. They had always worked better as a team: Robby picking out trees where Reg could see forest. He wondered what Reggie would have seen when he looked at Mycroft Holmes. He knew what he saw.

“He stopped holding your hand under the table because he noticed me looking. He’s so tense we could bounce coins off him,” Robby said, and Molly shifted her stance. She turned slightly, sliding one foot behind her the way he’d taught her to square up before a fight. He doubted she was conscious of it. He was proud of how well she’d learned that lesson, if a little bothered that she clearly felt so defensive.

“Mycroft is getting frazzled because you keep staring at him and you are not subtle and I understand you think this is your duty, but I’m fine.” She said, rapid-fire and nervous. He almost felt bad for poking at this, but she was right: he did think it was his duty.

“Are you? Fine?”

She sighed. “I really am, yes. And you’re right that he’s got something on his mind, but it’s for us to deal with, once he’s ready to discuss it. Anyway, prodding him, that’s not really my area.”

***

“Are we gonna talk about whatever’s upsetting you, honey?” Greg pounced as soon as uncle and niece had disappeared through the door.

Mycroft turned to face him, agape. This honestly wasn’t the place, but his mouth had already made the decision and it had been concerning him for a couple of weeks, which was a terribly long time for him to sit on something so lumpy. Best to be out with it.

“Lately you look uncomfortable anytime Molly says she loves me.” The thing was, it didn’t really fit. He knew that Mycroft still enjoyed sharing him and Molly with each other; he’d seen the sort of proof that was hard to hide without clothes on. But there was a difference between taking pleasure in watching your partners have sex and being completely thrilled that they had fallen in love too, and maybe he’d been fooling himself when he’d thought everyone was as happy as he was.

“No.”

“No?”

Mycroft was making a face like he’d stepped in a puddle while wearing socks and was trying not to squirm. “It’s not that.”

But it was something, then.

“If you need,” Greg said slowly, wincing at the twist in his gut, “to rethink this...”

“Absolutely not that at all,” Mycroft replied, glass sharp and cool but with eyes that were too wide. “I’m not unhappy that you... I’m not jealous of your relationship, Gregory,” he said, “The very notion.”

“Okay so,” he said, and stopped. He hadn’t thought around this corner yet. “So?” He leaned forward to plant his elbows on the table and waited.

Mycroft gazed entreatingly at the door like he hoped it would reopen and save him from this conversation. The door remained immune to his efforts, and Greg wasn’t going to let him off the hook either, now that he had him talking. If it ever crossed his mind to mention anything serious when they were home, they somehow ended up in bed first. Or against the nearest surface, more often.

“I am jealous,” Mycroft finally allowed, “of your ability to say it back.”

Greg’s relief was overshadowed only by exasperation. “Oh thank god! I was afraid it was something important.”

Judging from Mycroft’s, “Hmpf,” it was important to him. To be sure, it was nice to hear, but Greg didn’t really need it. Molly said it often enough that he never thought there was a lack of affirmations floating around. It was true that Mycroft was more likely to give gifts than words, but why did he think that ought to change?

“Are you wanting to say it for us,” he asked, “or for you?”

Mycroft considered that for a moment. “Both.” That seemed like the right sort of motive to Greg. “Is that what Molly thinks? That I’m unsure? I’m not.”

“You know, you could tell her that. With actual words. Out loud, even.” This man was going to kill him. He was already responsible for a number of his gray hairs.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I just,” he waved a hand at his throat, “can’t.” He got the last word out as the door opened to readmit Molly and her uncle, and the topic was tabled in favour of a truly fantastic blueberry custard.

***

Mycroft had written _I love you_ a thousand times: on paper, on Molly’s skin, on whatever piece of furniture was under his fingertip when Gregory grinned at him in that way that made his chest tight. But that same tightness still kept the words in when he wanted to say them. Answering Greg’s affections was almost reflexive, a kiss for a pet name or a letter for a sketch seemed like an even exchange rate. Molly’s frequent declarations echoed in the minor key when framed by his silence. He didn’t whisper it in the dark, or mention it over coffee in the morning, or say it before _goodbye_ on the phone. He heard the pauses where his line belonged like missed notes in a melody.

Of course she knew how he felt—they both did—but leaving it at that was too easy, and he didn’t think it should be. He hadn’t really had to work for any of this since she had stopped him outside of her morgue. She had given him things he would never have thought to ask for, and he wanted to pay her back with interest in her own currency.

Sherlock’s advice might have some merit. Mycroft suppressed a shudder at the idea. Terrifying.

He was impressed at how little effort and concentration Greg seemed to expend on getting to the truth. Mycroft had been trained to withstand forceful interrogation, and Greg could pull answers from him with a casual glance and an open-ended question. Had Mycroft not been thusly struck clean of his wiles, he would have divulged nothing, and he never would have brought it up of his own accord. It was the sort of thing he thought he should work through for himself, and letting someone else in on his fallibility left him cringing. He decided, after some analysis, that the benefit of having Greg’s ear outweighed the embarrassment of admitting his problem to one of the people for whom he wanted to fix it. Greg had a way of carrying him away from his troubles until they looked smaller in the distance.

At least Molly remained unaware of his internal struggles. Gregory didn’t allude to it after dinner, just bantered with Molly over who got to hold the leftovers her uncle was sending home with them while Mycroft spoke to the driver. Greg ended up grinning smugly from under a pile of plastic containers and foil. He had pointed out that she’d had “access to Robby’s cooking for all your life, bluebird, where’s your sense of fairness? Sharing is important!” Molly had gone bright-eyed over the effort to keep from laughing and in the end, she could only agree.

She gave Mycroft a sad smile when the car pulled up to her building, stooped to press her lips to his forehead and tell him and Greg she loved them before closing the car door and turning to trudge up the front steps. Something in her shape had shifted from patient to pensive. He didn’t know where he had gone wrong. Perhaps it was vain to imagine it was to do with him at all.

It wasn’t until he was on his back porch swing, rocking slowly between Gregory’s windchime and Molly’s potted hawthorn that he realised that maybe her flat had not been what she meant when she’d held his hand on the sidewalk outside her family’s pub and murmured, “Take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawthorn is for hope. 
> 
> Chapter title is from the song in the top notes, which I recommend heartily. Of course Hozier's lyrics are never reported the same twice, but this is what I hear, at any rate. It's not the song I listened to on loop for the writing of this, just the one that kept getting stuck in my head this week.
> 
> So about 10 minutes after I posted the previous chapter last year, I hopped (flapped?) onto twitter and learned about the Pulse shooting. It knocked the wind out of me and it only got harder to pick this back up. 
> 
> A lot has changed in a year and I've managed to pick up a very fine beta, Redscudery. (Senpai noticed me, y'all.) If my style has shifted a smidge, I can only work to ensure that the direction of that change is forward.
> 
> Love you guys, nice to see you again. Thanks for sticking around.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope y'all are enjoying it! Thanks for reading! <3


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